poets masturbate
habit of their loneliness
words are so messy
reading feeds something
a purposeless organ, this brain,
mine prone to madness
with reservations
the Blackfeet gave up their land
sunset came quickly
the vulgar flowers--
scrotum, butthole, penis, cunt--
smell like rare perfumes
the same country song
it played the night you were raped
you sometimes hum it
tupperware party
plastic preserves everything
the ladies' laughter
drinking alcohol
you are always in danger
of becoming drunk
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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