And my song needs to breathe: poetry isn’t poetry
and prose isn’t prose. I dreamt that you are the last of what god told me
when I saw you both in my sleep, then there were words…
A woman is not written in braille, you don’t have to touch her to know her.
I wish I were a Warhol silk screen hanging on the wall. Or little Joe or maybe Lou. I’d love to be them all. All New York’s broken hearts and secrets would be mine. I’d put you on a movie reel, and that would be just fine.