Betting on the Muse

we were the depression kids
and we swore we’d never be like our fathers
or our fathers’ fathers.
we’d break through the crap and the
fakery.
we knew something.
we knew something, sitting in the dark,
drinking and smoking.
it was all a matter of which one of us
got there first.
the ends of our cigarettes glowing in the
dark.
as perfect as we could get.
the laughter like knives cutting the
stupid air.
Los Angeles 1935

the illusion is that you are simply
reading this poem.
the reality is that this is
more than a
poem.
this is a beggar’s knife.
this is a tulip.
this is a soldier marching
through Madrid.
this is you on your
death bed.
this is Li Po laughing
underground.
this is not a god-damned
poem.
this is a horse asleep.
a butterfly in
your brain.
this is the devil’s
circus.
you are not reading this
on a page.
the page is reading
you.
feel it?