don’t write. ain’t written. mimics
#12 hanging there, suspended
mind whirling about in whorls of gloom
like a fever dream during twilight sleep
in the twilight zone as croce belts
don’t you know that i gotta get outta here
’cause where poet finds herself
is not, will not be her home

poet dreams so lucid swears she
astral projects, could lick desperation
offa dead man’s guitar strings
taste it on her tongue even as it bleeds
travel to 9-20-73, cup the beechcraft
airplane in her right palm, raise it high
above that murderous pecan tree, send
ol’ jim to sherman to sing another song