Poem to Nowhere (with Wolves)
Stupidly,
I fail to mention
my
happiness. One mouth
plus
one week plus maybe
another
week by now. Some
people
collect hearts. I give
mine
away. In pieces. I am,
however,
surviving okay like
this,
see? Well. Right at this
moment. With the grinding,
etc. But I feel art (as I eat a
french
fry). An attempt to
dig out
of the French poodle.
I have
to get myself wrapped
up and
out the door, somehow.
The
number one reason to wrap
oneself
up in a pub (and not a
poodle)
is that the high is so
incredibly cosmopolitan.
