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.