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Monday, April 2, 2018


The unicycle, were it -corn, would rust un-
ridden because who is jonesing to joust yon

white spear up her nether port? C’mon you’ll say—
you don’t ride on the head of the horse. Each day

I paddle this one-wheeled machine—no spot
reserved for saddle or horn. So who is not

thinking now? To taste a poem’s spire you must
study the originals—the killers who killed most

cinematically—gore-mongers all. They knew starvation
carved a homely corpse (though we now court bone

like girlfriend, be she oldfashioned or cosmopolitan).
Cherry. I woke up thinking not to eat today again.

Just I’ll eat yesterday, the garnish. I have poems, my
black thoughts and coffee, the sordid promise of ivory

dildo or poor juggler’s passage upstreet if I pray
and practice more and learn balance and practice

the patience necessary to restore balance which 
I know to be enormous—not to bitch. Nor do I pray. 

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