11.9.12

your heart is a tiffany lamp, or

The first thing i did when i woke up
was stop sleeping.
when I can
I spend my three dog
nightowls with a handsaw.
Holding on to what was left of
cross my heart and hope to die, I
punchdrunk tiffany lamp, I
Pale blue note, I
shiver the concrete
concentric tree
rungs in my arms along
the danube, I
called it once the Donau
but home is a shapeless, shiftless
boy with his second penknife,
having been too young for the first one.
now,

Your heart is a tiffany lamp, or
my heart is.
Let the dead bury the daylight,
the moon bury the dead, and
I will bury you,
my Jove, from here,
in a hap hazard
memory tomb with a touch
stone on your pillar ladder,
angels letting you
down.
My heart is a tiffany lamp, or
your heart is-
the dichotomy is title
in a river, mad
against me,
pushed out toward
I do not know where,
heaven maybe?
maybe Tennessee.



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