someone is in my office
expounding on his new relationship with email and the internet -
he's an electronic hold-out - if it isn't about piled up papers for 20 years,
he can't deal with it - strange dude but he owns half the town
and amuses me with his quips and antics - he owns the building
and lives in a cave in the back and his frantic
brother's office looks like 30 years of
but certainly can't throw any of it away -
they're both laid back and too financially wealthy to realize
what it means to have that much control over money
if i felt an affinity i would ask for backing
because both the brothers are saturated in funds.
i hint at it but hell, i don't wanna be owned by anybody.
how does anybody decide when to donate
to anybody and how much to donate?
that's what i'd like to know.
i read the poetry you contributed -
your writing is superb -
extremely parlimentary and prolific.
it was hard hitting, riveting and disturbing
to a degree and gave me pause since i wondered
whether it had any connection to reality
but i doubt it greatly since plot development
is everything and there were missing
words and thoughts between the lines
though i can't refer to any of them specifically.
i was thinking of donating it all when i realized that
there is nothing in my drawers i wouldn't want you to have.
the plan was to make space - to get boxes and bags
to open up my drawers and closets,
throw out all the superfluous garments
and negligable treasures.
to donate it all, put it out for purple heart,
combat wounded veterans that we are,
make drawer space and floor space
and erase the vacant and the bizarre -
but i forgot and the lady's voice came
on a microphone receiver and i received her
and heard that tomorrow i would be collected -
tomorrow the truck would come by
and they would throw me in.
should i donate myself with the old rags
and out of date accessories?
i couldn't decide but i didn't have time,
i didn't have seconds
i only had a cold glass of white wine
and a dose of decadence plus i knew
i could never donate myself except to a good cause.
yesterday is drab, faded, ripped, torn,
doused in the untraded yearn of birth.
there is a mound of clay which buries
all my yesterday beneath the headstone
and i have grown, awakening to the soil,
my hand reaching from below it lest i would fail,
my fingernails full of dirt, inert like a fast gas burst
from the middle of the earth.
to embrace you.
can i donate my touch, caress, my fingerprints on skin?
can i trace the place you've chased into my heart with sin?
is there any way to play this game and make it not a game?
what's the difference? what's the same?
can anybody win?
yes of course i will bring you
the loose and tight round winding
of smoke sucked in and blown out,
my hand, handing it to you in my palm
and with the balm of a lover waiting for adornment -
the more i bring to you, the more i give to you,
the more you fashion yourself lucky,
pall mall quick, the slick trick of it
we move with good luck
and soothe the fire of our heartbeat combined,
arm over arm, leg over leg, entwined,
sending ourselves each other
for supper, dined
if i donate myself to you
i don't need a receipt.
will you back me?