to weep in her hair

sweating in the kitchen
trying to hit one out of here
54 years old
fear bounding up my arms
toenails much too long
growth on side of leg

the difference in the factories was
we all felt our pain

the other night I went to see the
great soprano
she was still beautiful
still sexy
still in personal mourning
but she missed note after note
she murdered art

sweating in the kitchen
I don’t want to murder art

I should see the doctor and get that thing
cut off my leg
but I am a coward
I might scream and frighten a child
in the waiting room

I would   like to fuck the great soprano
I’d like to weep in her hair
I’d like to watch her walk to the bathroom

Polly wants a cracker
Popeye writes his phone number on shithouse walls:
“I suck young boys.”

and there’s Lorca still down in the road
eating Spanish bullets   in the dust

the great soprano has never read my poems
we both know how to murder art
drink and mourn

sweating in this   kitchen
the formulas are gone
the best poet I ever knew is dead
the others write me letters

I tell them that I want to fuck
the great soprano
but they write back about other
useless things
dull things
vain things

I watch a fly on top of my radio

he knows what it is
but he can’t talk to me

the great soprano is dead.