Fuck Bob Dylan

he wrote the song

I was meant to write

Shithead Bukowski

settin’ in his grave and laughin’

has no mercy on my calling

write the fucking poem he sez

he’s already in love

meaning you, my passion

today I went to the soup kitchen

and felt the full strength of

her fasten herself to me

like a crab, or kangaroo or a newborn baby

this was too much and too little

all at once

she saw the kindness

I knew the outcome

she wept and hugged

and then some

How would Bob write this

genius aggression

me on the ground

me saying things

I shouldn’t say

She fell into me in a doughnut of heat

I activated the life vests

on both of us

Don’t let them see your tears

they won’t understand

so much is in their hands

every week

every week

They are hungry I said

and she wept indiscreet

they are just hungry I said

and she nodded and left

came back a bit straighter

came back without a word

came back and served

Everything I want to write

has been written

even my epitaph will be stolen

we are a band of thieves

we are humans left longing

each moment is

churchless and

stateless

formless

friendless

nurtured

graceful

wronged and

faceless

Each moment is gone