NOW i am, and do not expect
tomorrow or yesterday today.
instead i write in exstacy
and when someone stops to say
"Hey, that's not true!"
i yell backwards,
"For who...... and fuck rhyme."
i have a city to cover with lines
with textured words &
the sweaty brick-flesh images of a
drunken tied-up whorehouse cowtown
sprawling and brawling on its back.