The Work Of Air Upon Ink

(By not defining poetry,
I can make man sane, with the arch of a brow
by pen, my mark made mine by
possession,
an ugly weaning of the crepuscule
and synthesis
of words, concepts and other ordures from the rebel's dictionary.)
I can kiss the rain, because lips are
everywhere, perfectly positioned
to fall unto mine,
a sweet deluge weeping for the loving touch
of my pen;
is it here,
ticking streaks upside stretched
cut throat
basting on the widened alleyways of my
grin right now, between one sensational lip and
the other limb, erect
to fool the folds
and cracks of that eager smile,
eager to sip the ink, curdled vomit
passing soon, drip,
dripping wasted life, life I could have given,
out of the corners of the mouth
that produced the kiss of the tempest,
in my choking voice?