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meant for publication.
Do not publish these
words.
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be published.
These words are not meant
for anyone.
Do not read these words.
Do not distribute.
Please do not for the sake
of God or anything otherwise
holy decipher the meaning
of these words,
disregard them.
Please do not read these
words.
Do not publish.
There is nothing else
said
that contains a meaning;
the only meaning:
Do not publish.
Do not read.

In the foothills
of the Sierra Madre
I resided for
one month
in contemplation
of my situation.
But I was getting
drunk and so
I didn't come
up with anything
except a headache.

Rucksack telling
me where I'm
going, yeah where
I'll walk or
move some hiway
what I do or
die by please
father, please
mother,
where should I be?
--there's nothing but
the hiway, and a
motion up the road
(and she promised
always to be there,
the road)
When road ends and
cornfield begins,
nothing,
lack of road,
goodnight.

What desire wasn't
sufficed by you
curling there darkly
in that fabled room.
What desire there as
you stretched legs?
Enough to disgust
perchance and it
would seem I, too,
have had enough.
What of those who
have had enough?
Love and the lost
moon of our skies
remember softly those
nights I was folded
and spoken for though
I was an exploding star
and blew to bits.

She said what of
it, yr. sorrowful
art, selling your
sadness is cheap
and a waste
--Oh if only you knew
the rest of it,
that I'm cursed
as my fate
clambered after
her and fell up
a mountain
reaching the peak
where then my
brain began to leak.

I am ghost

rider and

living my own

fate in the

presence of so

much hate

Remember me

for what I've done

running before

the bullet shot

from the gun

I am gone

Streets of Portland

Lonely sophist

Dining at the Roxy

Staying at the Kent Hotel

on Stark and SW 11th

Where bums fall

Into bottles of port

And poets tiredly

Remember their pasts

Shunning their contemporaries.

Remain anonymous at

The Kent Hotel, all in

The shadow of the city

Where poets mourn tiredly

The hour of my death,

Portland is passing like

The sinews of so many

Cities, streets and avenues

Sinking back into earth

Among shattered wine

Bottles and confused

Notes from lovers, old

Shopping lists the

Products of which we

Are.

I in my claw-footed

Tub, I peering over the

Fire escape, or over

The Roxy's counter

Cast into the lines

Of city streets and

Faces, enough to

Kill 1,000 pigeons.