Balboa, The Entertainer

It cannot come except you make it from materials it is not caught from. (The philosophers of need, of which I am lately one, will tell you. ôThe People,? (and not think themselves liable to the same trembling flesh). I say now, ôThe People, as some lesson repeated, now, the lights are off, to myself, as a lover, or at the cold wind. Let my poems be a graph of me. (And they keep to the line where flesh drops off. You will go blank at the middle. A dead man. But die soon, Love. If what you have for yourself, does not stretch to your body?s end. (Where, without preface, music trails, or your fingers slip from my arm