Saturday, October 12, 2013


The coarse-wing'd fly
Zips furiously among my books,
And does not shrivel at my dirty looks
Or drop to the rug and die.

Next to the lamp,
He slam-dances in the bright light;
Perhaps it isn't energy but fright
Of a life-crushing THUMP.

Fresh out of Raid,
I try Lysoling him to death
And chase him till I'm almost out of breath.
No, this one's not afraid.

Ah, leave him be:
It's time for coffee (half past three!).
I'll drink it in the kitchen so the bug
Won't dive into my mug.

You would presume
He'd get tired, the son-of-a-gun!
But round he goes, having his manic fun
In what was once my room.

68th Letter to a Poet

Awake till three, I tried reading Allen Ginsberg but overdosed on his naughty-boy language: baldpate sophomore. I nodded off to TV jaz...