For Goren Delic

I have just purchased
from the friendly Palestinian shop keeper
A pack of Number Seven cigarettes
on credit
until tomorrow morning
The coffee supplies look dim
I should have a talk with my supplier
The thin Chinese guy
who wears
the faded Winston Churchill T-shirts
who the cops are looking for

The only food that might come
are packets of Raman noodles
from a factory in Brazil
If only I can trade the black leather
from my belt in the morning
for a few bucks
I might able to eat tomorrow

Provided black leather looks good
on the morning exchange

There is no white wine
There is no talk about getting drunk
The wine supplies are controlled
by those academic poets
who operate in California
They’re all tight ass bastards
that no one should trust
Though I once got drunk
with Creeley on cognac
they don’t care anymore
They have shut down
my wine supplies
Do not trust them
with a single couplet

Because of the air raid sirens
I hear from World War 2
I have cancelled
all public appearances
I had to turn down the Nobel Prize
for black market engineering
CNN will not return my calls
though I promised them
a tub of my mother’s chile sauce
No one will refuel my private jet
even for parts of my ole Chevy ‘55
And I regret to inform you
There will be no torchlight processions
there will be no press conferences
There’s no way of gettting
the good word out
There’s no silver bullet train
that races through the dark
of the revolution

Even Trotsky himself has turned down
a cameo appearance in this poem
That is every indication
on how bad things really are
He was not interested in my stash
of Cuban cigars
Nor the blood dimmed tides of yore
I cannot find any buyer for

There is only a pack of cigarettes
and this poem
That can keep me sane
through this long September night
I call up the bank
There is 65 cents that remains
in my checking account
Not enough money to fund
the construction of
a single haiku poem
In which snow flakes fall
into their own shadows

I have sold just about every book I own
Save the screenplay for
Hiroshima, Mon Amour
My black suit might be next
I will have to go
to my father’s funeral naked
There are no herds of goats to sell
in the marketplace in the morning
and I refuse to make deals
with the Fascists

I must keep focused on this poem
until it fills with oranges
until the marmelade shall spread
through the dawn
on the toast I will imagine
As the neo-cons confiscate
my American Express card
which I was planning on
saving the world with

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