Op. 68: I

-Lee Waters

i’m in bed,

listening to

Brahms

like i’m

Chuck fucking

Bukowski,

writing fervently,

exactly; w/o

err.

it’s too easy

to become

Romantic—to

bury one’s self

in vocab. and

metaphor.

still, i offer you

my eyes—fingers

pressing, crushing,

gouging, and,

shaking, scoop the

vitreous body

into my cupped palms.

A Prayer. (do you want

them?)

garbage. meaningless

viscera, and for what?

speak like a normal

human being.

professor quoted Chuck

today in class,

like it was a

normal thing to do.

list poem—punchline,

three pages in:

god, i hate my wife.

c’mon.