THOUGHTS

I hear the mountains in the way they laugh up & down their blue sides & down in the water the fish cry & the water is their tears. I listen to the water on nights I drink away the sadness & it becomes so great I hear it all around me. it becomes my clock, it becomes knobs upon my dresser, the paper on the floor, a shoehorn, a laundry ticket, the cigarette smoke that climbs a chapel of dark vines. It matters little. Love is not so bad or very little life what counts is waiting on walls. I was born for this, I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.