standing on the top of the building
the triple word score on the roof.

I Jump,
so that everybody who examines me post-mortem
will know about the
HONEY.

It is quite sweet.
It is made from buzzing bees.
Bears like it though they sting.
I like it. I sing.
Mariah Carey’s sexual euphemisms
sound like fun
seem so real
in sleep.

The phone rings
before I can finish dripping
down
sweetly upon
the street below.

I pick up.
My mother needs help with the computer
the window is screwed up and I need to
do something about it.

The clock looks at me.
I look back.
It greets me by telling me it is 5 o’clock in its mathematical tick tock toock language
then tries to touch me with stiff hands
so I scream
RAPE!
and run away
to shower
to hydrate
to prepare poems
and then run away
to the subway
onto the 1 train
south to Franklin Street,
walk to Leonard Street
enter the Knitting Factory
where the mic is open.

And it’s just
like
Honey
when your love
comes
over me
Oh baby I got a dependency
every night and day
can’t hardly wait
for another taste of honey.

This is true about sex,
but sex is more like cherry blossoms
than honey.

This is true about sleep,
but sleep is more like Clorox Bleach.

I am going to sleep now
but I would rather have sex.

Yes I am talking to you:
at least appear here and
rub my nipple a little while.