Take the time to waste away.

The addition of intention to the
equation is the only ingredient that
turns starvation to fasting, the saving
provision of living—indeed, barely existing—
on the fringes of the social
contract which turns destitution to mysticism.

Forgive my lubricious cupidity, and the
allegèd obscenity of my truth, but
words are the weapons of poets
and philosophers—splinters whispering into old
wounds resounding koans opening them like
empty tombs to what has already
been on full view to everyone
else but you.

My poetry’s better
when written on an empty stomach,
readers want to feast on my
inherent longing, my insatiable wanting my
allegations of talent cannot fulfill.

Never
mistake the democratic act of reading
for the despotic privilege of authorship—
the outward appearances of artists for
what they conceal within.

In spite
of the flagrant caustic these lips
spit with irreverent resonant acoustics, the
straightest thing about me’s my edge—
as deeply committed to it as
my voice is cavernous—the style
of my life one so sober,
the only instance in which you’d
ever find me stoned’s as a
heretic.

(Overheard in my urban hermitage.)