Drunk at your door.

I hate you, Ginsberg, with your lanky confidence,
babble off violence
mending by genocide inside of a sickness confined in,
free association formed for free forms forming things uniformed by choice said the lord.
A calm association to our parents pains us
pairs us!
Pairs us even.
Pairs us even still
to the childhoods we drew up and avoided haircuts through,
to mass wave extinction,
not of the children but of their parents skin.
You see it should never reach our soul.
Thats why its fine to have holes, in the donuts we stole,
from 3rd and Lincoln,
laughing through wind while weeding out the lie inside this pastery,
flaky crumbles of a focused symmetry.
To find human error in ever corner,
Bill Hicks heard the worst news concerning himself,
his contagious self,
blameless wealth
and shameless truth in a voting booth,
and i knew,
you must always make it a choice.
Fundamentalist Guru Evangelist rapist, in meta-time
sermon leaking from the whites of our eyes.
Until you heard,
they changed the term.
All the while I've been doing sculptures of dyslexic words,
each one, to me,
slightly less absurd,
more often adding verbs,
I heard you.
I heard you.
I hear you
I hear you right now.
Door frame
Detached door
Dangling
at the edge
To live without doors
To live without walls
blind in abounding dissolving.
In placid boiling
I heard you
I can hear you right now,
one ear
sewn into the carpet,
the other pressed firmly against your door.