If the arrangement of words 

cause you sudden sensations of

discomfort, ecstasy 

or fire in the brain

then come join me for a drink

and please come 

a little un-sane

I think you can relate?

i'm the dead 

                 Robert Frost

decaying

in a snowy wood

that oozes

in the summer heat

the earthy smell 

          the sex of words 

and Walt Whitman's

           wonderlusting feet

i'm the private genius

of Emily Dickinson

(hidden)    in the catacombs

of her bedroom dresser

i am Pauline Johnson's 

paddle,

       stirring...  ancestral dreams

of flint and feather

i'm the   God-drunk

rebellion of Louis Riel

and that prince of 

perverts,    Leonard Cohen

making song to your perfect body

in the Chelsea Hotel

i'm Lazarus arisen,

the Lizard King,

the howling fire 

of Jim Morrison

                    in a peyote dream

i am the hot heartbeat

of Red Jacket

breathing words into flight

from their      perch

on the tongue 

of a long winter's night

i'm the illumination

in a glass of rye

the cynical "i"

 the barfly on the wall

the fuck you      

of Bukowski

                                           Last call! 

Cheers to every poet i never was!

Cheers to every poet you'll never be!

There's beauty in the all 

and little left in the end to envy

Cheers to the Lesser Gods

of feather, tongue, and alchemy!

who will happily show you how 

to walk through walls

and jangle the chains

of your mere mortality

but will NEVER show you 

the way home