Five

sure, I know that you are tired of hearing about it, but

most repeat the same theme over and over again, it's

as if they were trying to refine what seems so strange

and off and important to them, it's done by everybody

because each must work out what is before them

over and over again because

that is their personal tiny miracle

like now as like before and before I have been listening to symphony after

symphony from this radio

makes me realize that certain people now long dead were able to

transgress graveyards

and traps and cages and bones and limbs

in tiny rented rooms I was struck by miracles

the flesh covers the bone

and they put a mind

in there and

sometimes a soul,

and the women break

vases against the walls

and the men (they) drink too

much

and nobody finds the

one

but keep

looking

crawling in and out

of beds.

flesh covers

the bone and the

flesh searches

for more than

flesh.

there is a loneliness in this world so great

that you can see it in the slow movement of

the hands of a clock

people so tired

mutilated

either by love or no love.

people just are not good to each other

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us

that we can all be

big winners

it hasn't told us

about the gutters

or the suicides.

or the terror of one person

aching in one place

alone

untouched

unspoken to

people are not good to each other.

people are not good to each other.

I suppose they never will be.

I don't ask them to be.

but sometimes I think about

it.

there must be a way.

surely there must be a way that we have not yet

thought of.

there's no chance

at all:

we are all trapped

by a singular

fate.

nobody ever finds

the one.

who put this brain inside of me?

it cries

it demands

it says that there is a chance.

it has kept the rope from my throat

maybe it will loosen

yours

the city dumps fill

the junkyards fill

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill

the graveyards fill

nothing else

fills.