WEBVTT

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OK, The next poem
is called Ulcer

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which is a kind of eating poem
but I don't to my knowledge

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have an ulcer yet.

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But anyway that's what
it's called, Ulcer.

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Inside you stomach like
a shirt your wife's

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ironing you can hear it hiss.

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A red tulip no bigger
than a light bulb

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you had hoped to keep it away
from cats, Japanese beetles,

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diss the world.

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Planning itself inside you like
that staple deep in your index

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finger and end to the calm you
were saving up for gray days

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like this one.

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You can't escape like a kid
from a New York tenement,

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for wrestles the
fire hydrant open,

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he watches the
water pummel him all

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that rubbish sliding
past soot, nobody's

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ever going to wash off.

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