The Drunk Lover Of Words
I should write, in this fug of
alcohol and dreams and snow,
with words like ripe cherries
waiting to be plucked and eaten,
sweet and sour and stony-hearted.
This should be my Ulysses, my Emma,
my Don Quixote, my Scoop, my
Lolita, my Lucky Jim, my Austerlitz,
my Clarissa, my Catch-22, my Nausea, my
Jane Eyre, my Heart of Darkness.
I should write, in this haze of
bravura and need and dust,
with words like rare jewels
yearning to be shaped and polished,
bright and hard and beautiful.
This should be my Entirely, my Howl,
my Dover Beach, my V, my
Still I Rise, my Life Is Fine, my Brown Penny,
my America, my Dream Deferred, my Romance, my
Always, my Deaths and Entrances.
I will write, in this riot
of caffeine and lust and night,
with words like cut arrows
aching to be nocked and loosed,
straight and true and hitting home.