I have no hope.
I sit in a log cabin
somewhere, surrounded by washing machines
and bottles of beer.

You enter dancing,
your skin sailing around your bones,
the soup of your system drowning your thoughts,
your thoughts crying “Help!”….”Don’t Help!”

Only for you
is death a dream.
Meat flies into your mouth
like sunlight, Miss America,

you are never full,
your fat is like the flag,
it hangs between you and the world.
That is why I have given you this.

This Issue

April 24, 1969