drove into town
bought Maria presents
only to run out of gas-
thought i was bulletproof.
days after id been shot
blowin out my eyes
till daylight waved like castoff maple leaves-
pretended colors every time i felt assassinated.
dropped out of $5 ante poker games,
used what i bluffed
to buy a buckskin pony and some wild turkey.
sometime Maria and i’ll finish our breakfast, slowly-
guessin gifts like these are part of the search,
was never any good spendin someone else’s cash
or translatin fictional poets,
or empathizin with other’s paintings.
“hadn’t written a dream down near six months”
some guy from St. Paul told me,
so i sanctioned talkin fast and loose-
and today i get around too, recognizin
dreams as haircurlers between our eyelids.
Maria skeptically grinnin unwrappin another gift:
“how’d you get to be a Poet?”
“memorized manuals on target practice”, i surrendered.
“well thanks for all these sunglasses”, she blinked.
these days i do not bother reading menus:
passed the physical, failed the metaphysical
thinkin i was bulletproof.
1982
NYC