It’s always the same.
No liquor in the house.
The last cigar snuffed in its ashes.
And a heavy dose of poems.
At two a.m. you know
that can’t be good for you.
But there I go,
arteries crackling like
artillery when I dial.
East or west.
Central or Pacific.
Chicago, San Antonio, New York.
And when I’m through
hurling words as big as stones,
slashing the air with my tongue,
detonating wives and
setting babies crying.
And when my lovers are finished
telling me—You’re nuts,
Stop yelling and speak English please!
After everything
that’s breakable is broken,
the silence expensive,
the dial tone howling like my heart.