All sensibilities are parked away from downtown at
4:12 a.m. while you and I are tying together murderous orcas in the swimming pools with the shade behind the blinds.
4:26 and I wish I could talk, but you’re too chaotic,
and still my greatest inspiration.
Everyone likes Kerouac for the chaos.
The women of the last few years are the terror that I’m late for work with no clean clothes.
Coffee hasn’t slowed me yet;
tomorrow isn’t ruined.
The slow drip of morphine is too slowly
taking it out of her.
Hopefully the perfect wording to Anne Sexton’s question
is lying at the bottom of my pen,
a chord or so between blinks.
But everyone likes Kerouac for the chaos.
