You owe it to yourself, to get up in the mellow of the night
and take empty your bladder or revolver, and quench your thirst for the ripe grapes thawing near the fire escape--
It's the right thing to do
Why are you still lying there contemplating/
these are promises we made
The nervous system will survive any improvement you make to any self-like-painting-the-self-in-black-and-white-but-still-the-lips-are-red--
Even if you get up
throw the grapes and James Brown recordsleeve in a sturdy suitcase, and fly home
Only to wake up in the same bed, still thirsty for grapes, still the pilgrim from bladder to heart from habit to discipline, from him to his history, to him, through his history
With two hands steering the dictionary you read in your sleep,
When doubtless--
This isn't my language
unless this is how I move to live
