I just like
the jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws from a poem by Walt Whitman.
The journeyman printer
who works at his case and
whose blue eyes blur with
the manuscript.
The manuscript
which was written all the filth of the world. The manuscript
which says that the window overlooks the vagabond,
who digs in the dump and tries to find the best years of his muddy life. The manuscript
which is written about the siblings,
who sleep on the bus stop, cowering in pain and cold in February. The manuscript
which is written about how I
took the day off, got high and
took off just like a Concorde, trying to fuck the sky. The manuscript
which is written about people,
who have today is the last day of their lives. The manuscript
which is written about how many times I got dumped.
I wrote "my consciousness is the smallest town in the Universe."
I wrote "I gave up on everything."
Jeeze, why everything is fucked up?
I wrote "what's wrong with me?"
I wrote "stop bitching, because you're living is not so bad."
I wrote "don't be fooled by the words" and laughed.
I wrote "this manuscript is yet another bad poem about something unimportant"