rattlesnake venom

the ochre of the stuff,
and he wants to be a poet of the street
oh baby

The night is a dewdrop on the breast of
morning, and it is for us, mere mortals,
to enjoy this sensuality, this
foreplay before we engage in the in-
tercourse that is day. I'm a beat poet,
beat poet, beat poet, beat beat burp boo. . .

She lies to me—
says blond when her hair is black black—
but I love her taste,
her taste is so kinky.

I am on a subway,
huddling behind a paper,
reading yesterday's book reviews.

Sometimes he just wanders the street,
looking at the commodities of the street walkers,
sucking up the steam, auto exhaust, effervescence.
He doesn't show at work,
calls in sick.

rattlesnake venom