I have barricaded myself inside
Roberto Bolaño. On 16th street
my face is not in the bare display case
but I see the burning sky
with black and purple-tinged clouds
that I’d read in the library before
taking three more books out. I read them
in one sitting; not even my bladder
will disengage from Don Roberto’s
directory of sons of bitches,
or stop my search for three little wave forms.
When the bloody madness has ebbed
I hold my pen like a barbarian.