i'm dead, who am i
by Ron Androla

hyenas' claws harp
at my ass. i'm a screaming,
edible, stringed instrument in gold
eye sunbeam morning,

& this isn't l.a. or san
pedro. this isn't especially
amerika. i'm in rotten
guts of disbelief, ripped

like a fucked, old race-horse.
jane is drooling from wine
we guzzled last evening & night.
she sleeps with a face that

cld finally kill god.
& she's not even the
anti-christ, just a drunk
hooker i like

because she's so
shattered, because
she's a shattered
woman beyond repair.

i can wake her,
tell her to get the
holy fuck
out. hyenas

just sniff her
ass & cunt,
reject
her as food or a

victim of
torture. these
fuckers want
me, awake, head

pounding,
typing standing
up &
bleeding profusely

from each broken
flower-bud of
my finger-
tips.

i don't know
why the little
radio is
smashed.

i'm making
up mozart symphonies
in the middle
of my soft brain

complete with
real church-
bells &
slices of street traffic.

otherwise,
nothing means
shit, really,
other than this poem,

& mutating jackals
called
common
men.

If Amerika wasn't fucked up, Androla, a veteran of underground poetry, would have been poet laureate of the USA by now. But since it is fucked up, he's not, but on the sunny side of the street, that fuckedupness does give him a bit more to write about. The uncontested greatest poet to ever emerge from Ellwood City, Pennsylvania, Androla, now resides further north in the "swing" commonwealth (it's not a state!) in Erie. Email him at randrola (whereit'sat) hotmail dott com and visit his websites: his new one and ron androla's pressure press presents.