the space race is fucking heating up
our shoulders slump towards an oblique nirvana
and noone worries about making individual objects
i am tired from last night's drinking,
tired of last night's drinking
while revolutionary ghosts light my windowsill
in handwritten hauntings.
their notes announce a new poet to come
into his own.
darkness and shadow tether my dreams
ghosts and acoustic guitars.
i think my wonderful hauntings will haunt
my revolutionary diatribes,
while our forefathers fuck our foremothers
in repititive dreams
at s. side clubs
forty two years
i read over my manifestos in said darkness,
in mephisto's oblique presence
and dream something terrible wonderful tonight
full of wonderful swirling unemployed anxieties.
counting my heaven tablets
-----and then but yet the feeling-------
---oh! the feeling---