in the morning

in the morning when you rise, do you think of me,

do you wonder, if I’m still crazy

or do you think I’ve found God, Buddha, Allah,

or some crazed hippie commune ideal.

In the morning when you rise, do you think of me,

do you wonder if I’m off chasing windmills.

A crazy lion poet who reads to walls

and clouds wandering the sky

and hears the roar of waves

clapping his genius.

Do you think I’ve found an  erotic

Gertrude Stein able to converse without

the physical fucking or is somewhat

more more boring, I like to write

and I give thanks to Hemingway and Nin,

Miller and Bronte, Di Prima and Walden,

Pollock and his mistresses…everything…

 

In the morning when you rise, do you

think of me, maybe, maybe,

for a moment.

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