Poem Hunter
(1984 / 'Lowell, Mass.')


Smoke blows into my booklungs, filling
my intestines with grease. At ease I sit,
never wanted my persona to end, but it has.

The music is never more the clearer as is now,
so crisp and light my ears open to see the words.
My tears are not made and deserts become my eyes.

My lunchbox heart is jumping. My cares are gone,
made for violence, they aren't needed. My body jiggers
and complains of disposables that don't exist.

My change happened here and my love isn't
far behind. My fears leave me empty. True Alpha is
made, to part the glories of his happy day.

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