27 Oct Lúmens y Cianotipias

All the words you said to me
Still vibrating in the air

There she goes, my beautiful world

JohnWillmot penned his poetry
riddled with the pox
Nabakov wrote on index cards,
at a lectern, in his socks

St. John of the Cross did his best stuff
imprisoned in a box
And Johnny Thunders was half alive

when he wrote Chinese Rocks

I’m just lying on my bed with nothing in my head

There she goes, my beautiful world

And Dylan Thomas died drunk in
St. Vincent’s hospital

There she goes, my beautiful world

If you’ve got a field, that don’t yield,
well get up and hoe it