Huncke read to us
they say his body is covered with tracks
don’t justify yourself
he doesn’t he knows
he don’t have to
he reads the blown poems
of last week spacing in my
head the where it’s at today.
Man, what eyes. This guy’s
got blue through truth socket fillers. Man
my imagination is a taxable luxury
only to me.
And I squander it on coital fantasies and
Green giant parrot heads
float like bobbers on the blue ocean,
all blue as far as one can see.
Yellow beaks open and shut on the universe,
a cracker being eaten from the edges inward.
I take hold of my molecules
and expand myself.
Carried up and around the tops of buildings
up and in the wind as dust.
Next I become the street.
People make love in cars above me.
I feel their movements through the tires.
Men and girls puke on me.
People bleed die fall in love over me.
I stretch out over bridges across the plains of middle North America.
People spit on me.
Sleep on me.
Dream in my gutters.