one of my friends lost her mind in nineteenth century
novels. i tried to have her take a cure. i offered your
books. i said here are wild dog hotel poems. cocaine and
cooked dog. i said. wild street. totally present words.
here take them they’re for you. read them now please.
one time, my lover promised to fly you from new york.
oh my birthday. i knew you’d find me tedious. impervious
to perversity. another day another fan. my lover was
full of empty promises and no money anyway.
p.s. i never had the ramose, stones, fabian forte or
anyone else on my wall.