What do you want to do when you feel drained?
Do you want to proclaim your love and bury your head in the concrete flesh?
Do you want to search the eyes the iris the pupil for what's next?
What do you want to do when you feel drained?
I held my head in my hands to the killing floor.
No comfort was taken from the tapestries off from white walls torn.
No attention was wasted on the prophecies and patterns recorded in books.
I held my head in my hands to the killing floor.
And my hands held their claim as it spun me on the floor,
aching and dizzy from what it saw to get— a stronger notion of where to go.
Aching if only for a sense of some pleasure deftly— staking its claim in time.
And my hands held their claim as it spun me on the floor.
Some part of my one claim is surely vulnerable to attack.
If I do what's sensible then what's crazy might stab me in the back.
If it can die though it all dies and reincarnates some— many times a day.
Some part of my one claim is surely vulnerable to attack.
Started while residing on Columbus Ave. in Syracuse, NY; 1993 or 1994, aged 25 or 26.
Unfortunately in verse mode the width you can write in is
much narrower than it needs to be so when typing up or
editing long lined poems like this one the software often
just chops of the words that go past the un-indicated
right margin and put them on a line by themselves just
below it. At any rate, yes, those one word “lines” are
supposed to be at the end of the line above them.
Writings By Erick Heins 