To the tired faced man on my stolen library book:

I want to become a purist,

An artist with refinement of experience.

I want to be your sidekick

And serve your coffee

And lay out your underwear

in the morning.



Sit me down into a wooden chair

And give me your poetry

Until I want to get up from this chair

and bleed you free of your art.

Until it gets gray and monotonous

and it no longer effects me.

Until Seraphim comes roaring in

Proclaiming my existence timid

and not worth a straw in your comparison.



I want to hear what you did at the JFK airport

at four in the morning,

waiting for your father

without any coffee or paper,

And suddenly reaching an Epiphany.

Was it some sexual perplexity?

Was it a four-in-the-morning illusion?

Or maybe I'm jealous because

I'd be home in bed.



But did the little pink number

the lady across from you was wearing

Arouse you? Make you hot?

Then what happens

when you have no paper?

She must be thinking, "You dirty old man,

Your hair is worn and greasy

Like the bottoms of tires.

Have you no shame?"

Her lips are evenly moving mechanism.

Concealing only her silent intentions.

Are they a morning illusion?

Or maybe I'm jealous because

You aren't able to serve your genious.



I saw your portrait on the front

of my book. You were tired.

Your lips were distorted.

And you eyelids were closing

From systematic aging

From seeing too many

newspapers,women.

You were quoted, "I am all wrong,

My mind is falling down."