(tribute to william s, i mean chris)

Ginsberg wrote about himself
as the universe and all the poets in the produce isles
in all the whirling samsara
Jack, about lost soot covered America and the souls strewn across
Faulkner, about the holy mud and dilapidated buildings of an Ancient south
and London wrote about dogs fogging in the cold
but Mac wrote that William wrote about cats

me, I write about women

and sometimes they move all smooth
and liquid silk
and occassionally they burn and swallow everything
when they bat their eyes or throw their hips

but sometimes they're sunsets, static and memory
and the moon rolling heavily across the vacuous night
and cars all cold and metal
with aggrevated headlights streaming through the streets
sometimes they're the streets and the tears
and the mysteries strung out on rosaries
wrapping whithered hands
and eyelashes and cement trucks and
travellin miles and loving and
all sorts of elements with wild properties

sometimes they're stars
and sometimes they're drunk sciences
or religions and faith and frenzied dance
or nine to fives in poor lighting

and sometimes they're the dry dust kickin up from the dry earth

but mostly
they're the nameless space between

me, I write about women