Cleanliness isn't happiness.
How much fucking gumption
does that take?
They tell me; it starts to hail.
I crumple on the cement.
The hail follows me
to a drill, to chitchat,
to Polish cat fiends
scraping me all day dry.
I tell you,
please respond.
I have a need,
have to know what you think.
Because you're good at thought.
Sorry I cussed in the same column
as you. They say
anger is natural,
anger is real,
and I'm so fucking
angry at you.
I need you to say
he'll be there
to tell me something
anything nothing.
Don't know where you are
who you are.
Can I have a Child?
"Happiness...."
I can't stand the feeling I have, but I have it-
want to hold It to my breast.
Can't do much
but stare at the rise
and fall of my tummy hole.
Don't want to laugh
tomorrow.
Can't go back to
New York where we breathed
beer-smoke together.
"Happiness."
Cleanliness isn't happiness
or sadness or cleanliness at all.
Were you in the dark?
Away from here now.
Your work apart from me;
my work apart from you.
Sometimes you get a feeling
like you can change
someone else's fate.