too dry for words,
need: liquid regeneration,
no sunlight, but
cheap fuel and cold
make my pen salivate
rain never hurts either,
wet hair, soul, muddy
shoes, holes in most
things,
ashes.
the uncompromising page,
pen, mind out of ink,
but no matter,
unpaid rent and police sirens
write this poem.
I said booze, not
muse.
