between the thought of "is it really so?"
and the thought of "it doesn't matter any more"
you'll find my lips locked to a bottle
with the rest of the clowns, bathing in pig stew

the touch of a small woman
always will end a small man.
i keep my knuckles on the coals in hope
that i am bigger than i am

the cyclic nature of this scene
forces an inescapable theme
for the poetry i squeeze out of my membrane...

will someone tell the idiots next door to switch from nas to coltrane?