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
now
jesus
so
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

