Thoughts That Came To Me While Staggeringly Inert In Room 306 At The Ambassador Hotel
It didn’t seem peculiar to anyone.
The ordinary is a blue cup leaking by a white plate.
It rains. I wander interstate
the inkless vein that fuels.
I think it would be nice to leave this room.
At night rain travels northward,
when I by darkness I do not own travel northward too.
Light ever magnifies
the list of days on which it snowed
and those on which it only rained.
Others huddle under covers in their beds,
because there is no hill to stand on.
Upturned palms staunch the rain
though seas flood toward the crowing cock:
a bastard I have known
who routinely killed the dreams I stroked
like the brutal farmer does his lovely horses in the field.
In darkness the eye is left to sense its limit.
Hands search walls to find a divot.
I pack my eyes
in chloroform beside my broken skis.
Laud bells announce the feast
to ring the skin off some immaculate beast.
It would have been nice to have wasted a life other than my own.