lunch poems hunger

O'hara, I miss
your Billie holidays, your broke
lunches, you must've been so skinny;

That's why you ate the spring-summer air,
the may fragrance
of subtle toxic petals
where those damned kids, pubescent
library office girls, threw dirt and flower balls dispersing
fast, damp,
in the less than Katz-sandwich breath
of the sweaty, grease-cheeked, American boys of construction,
so professor, you would've rapped my knuckles
and then beg'd t'kiss it
'cause I name-dropped the cereal
that I spilled
out of the box
and off the graffiti'd square chess table.

They were like O's, her mouth was an O,
his asshole was an O, the shape of processed grains
into dusted fields underfoot,
the way I plunged my mouth on it,
like it was the pathway shaped like my mother's cunt,
and up into somebody else's flushed-face o'sms;
oh, oh,

oh! I loved blasphemy, it's the way
I am gliding across your walls (repainted white),
like a bug (a roach), and under my bed,
and I peeled the coat with tape and my nipple
to find an imperfect grey heart,
or maybe a pointed penis head,
but you know y'can't find sex, or love the way I'm grinding
against intangibles to sate
my birth-controlled soul of the need for Pollock and Picasso,
decrepit cities, dirty, ugly New York, high grade vibrators,
and kasha, brothy and deliciously filling me.

Waning, I apologize
the meteoric condition
of the sylph expired;
the moonless tides of lashes
threatening to cradle and break.

The nights often layered
into fetuses in prayer,
shelled in the body of heavy, linted comforter.
These lids pressed to shams,
and blossomed craters and radio waves
on the black of maria pupils and atmosphereless irises.

…Then through the muddled shades,
beneath its dusk and lamp orange webs,
while I was lost and found and wombed and saturated,
it crept in: luminescence,
and it drank away the sleeping universe.