An Attempt

I have shouted at that Old Angel
Midnight, and slept the whole day dark
just to keep him there.

Everyone's an artist now;
daytraders become nightbloggers and
nightwatchmen become daydreamers
in a haunted futile dereliction of
our vagrant earth,
and Jesus,
isn't that beautiful, the very attempt?

If we were all perhaps
a bit more in love with our own genius,
with the hotquick breath
and madpanting lolling eyes
of our lovers and
let the road just roll over
every Neil Cassady that refused to submit to anything
and just fucking L I S T E N . . .

And so I intend to live,
just to be ironic,
just to give singular form
to all my self-indulgent, escapist fantasies.
And just try to stop my love now
as it crushes you into a slow, condensced vibration.

SW