Poem 4/24/17

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.

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