eleven minutes

i sound these days
like foghorn over a prairie
the pain tempest in unreal storm.
freeze it , you whisper, numb
the bitch out. i take an esmoke
lesson in the virtual, do crunches
and scizzors in the pool, remember
the round ball of your touch
and the fuzzy oxy bubble
in the  middle of the night. he says
i just have to get used to the bed
and i says i just have to use
the pain. recall how you soften
it how the swelling billows
over san francisco's famous waters
reach in vain for the long lonely
bleat of the horn, sounding off desperate
ignored on the sunny plains of nebraska.



















*





i dunno . that metaphor didn't wok.
when the pain subsides i always want to just
take a li'l nappy time, enjoy the void.


like now. i can do this sitting up. in fact
it's better that way. but if you wanna
run your fingers over the burning point
let me lie down, succumb to the fire.