This is a different sort of space race.
To the stars through adversity!
A right hook to the jaw, and the planet sees stars!

I don’t read.
I read Rilke and bleed.

I wake each morning
To the sound of awful coughing   
Coming from the street

I move my body meat smell next to yours,
Your spice of Zanzibar. Mine rains, yours pours—
Sex tropics as a way to not be dead.

Plop the live lobster into boiling water and let it scream.
You both turn red. 
Of course you have to eat it dead. 

A man walks briskly away from his body
And from feeling slightly sick on a blazingly fall day.
The sky is fresh perfection, without a cloud of illness.

Some people say sex is like riding a rainbow.
Maybe theirs is.
I say I fall on a grenade each time.

Each of us is also a ghost. 
Most you can see.
They look like the person you are.

I have a friend who has a friend 
Who asked her to place her hand
And place a flower on Samuel Beckett’s grave

The golden person curled up on my doormat.
Using her mink coat as a blanket,
Blondly asleep, a smile on her face, was my houseguest