Adam and Eve were sitting on the end of the bed. America needs more Bob Kaufman and less Jane Austen. By Bob Kaufman I have folded my sorrows into the mantle of summer night, Assigning each brief storm its allotted space in time, Quietly pursuing catastrophic histories buried in my eyes. And the sun is still ninety-three million miles from me, And in the imaginary forest, the shingles hippo becomes the gay unicorn. No, my traffic is not addled keepers of yesterday's disasters, Seekers of manifest disembowelment on shafts of yesterday's pains.
Blues come dressed like introspective echoes of a journey.
And yes, I have searched the rooms of the moon on cold summer nights. And yes, I have refought those unfinished encounters. Still, they remain unfinished. And yes, I have at times wished myself something different. Camus, I want to know. . .