denis johnson was a friend of mine

through sluggish jungles of hep c and failed livers
 we can have prose that annihilates too
 seeking cures for jealousy 
 lepers of chance
 belting out ransacked deluges of overdosed rage
 through the tracks of a heroine’s eyes
 just as well 
 rushed strolling 
 and the captured perfect deliberateness
 called by blood
 to weaker strengths
 no need for the space paragraphs might allow


 slap an older paint job over all these borrowed brows
 the furrows of sleep’s ugly cousin lie in wait
 like scrapped bank jobs and hardly to heart and taken too
 don’t you know all those unbearable dreams we never tried on 
 passed away through the dew-heavy ferns
 already we shot cranes and blasted apart cantilevered sentences 
 spoke in clipped iambs of chagas disease over dandelion-root tea
 knifed commas to slice the night’s gut wide
 while dressed to-go under the intoxication of temporary shelter’s claim
 plain and absurd
 an ambush of petals for a heart’s last gasp

fuck it

there you go with another one
 mr. death
 my letter was always 
 in the mail

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