Words for Occupation

I want a poetry that is subjective, bold faced, damaged and wild. I am tired of having nothing left. I want breath on cold windows at the base of the tongue; an actual human intimacy, shot harpooned from honesty and mess. I write of my small presence in the world, sharing with you the dependent murmurs of my love for you. A desire, a yearning to see your naked lunch and suffer with you. The dream, the poems of the body as actual, physical contact with the community, with the commons, with that untenable ideal of utopic pirate ships at dawn break. There is such love that I have found in these five years of being a poet, that feeling of such agerasia, such passion and drive that we do not have to feel alone. We have feet on the ground.

To the End of Pound, by Nicholas DeBoer, EOAGH