Truth of My Youth

BAD SLEEP OR NOT SLEEP AT ALL

Tonight slowly turns morning.

This guy who breathes instead of me from tiny particles

           handed out by cold fingers on a street corner and

from a tiny square mirror held on the edge of my friend's bed,

            I want to fuck him up.

Kaleidoscopic images of girls fucking girls and dicks

and flowers that fade and grow endlessly

of people who perish and repopulate my dreams.

?

An old lady I know I met at the store yesterday:

“Oh I know Red Bull!

I know life can be hard and boring

but when I was young I never did drugs or caffeine and now

I’m in much better health than most of my friends.

You should think about it.”

I think about it.
I think about

kids playing in the snow, then on the beach.
I open my eyes to my black room

where green digital numbers glow.
Mark every step of the night

            that slowly turns morning.

Deprived of human heat and earthly heat

i swing an ocular lamp in a black room.

Tomorrow’ll know the first snow

                                    of the season.

Season, season, season, go.

Night too.
Finally, the least twitches –not the last throes–.