poem: the sun also rises

I have this idea of maine — the ocean is a small god, a constant
always suicide; there are pine trees like there were
pine forests in my childhood, their raging phallic heads high
above the fire, the drifting smote, the cow-flys
illuminated from behind and turned into fairies. I have this idea
of paris, with long cafe-evenings enveloped in smoke
and cheap wine and my teeth marks very visible
on your collarbone. I have this idea of prague — my careful
mental orgasm on franz kafka’s grave, the buildings
too beautiful, too old — what can a living person
do with steeples and gothic statue faces, what can a living person
do a with the face of god across
the middle-square, where here was twenty-century genocide
and here was no redemption, no release, only
the remembering and the unfortunate teeth-marks of
politics; what can a living person
do with history? and my mother wants to know if I
will happy in Maine, or if I will be once again
disappointed — i.e., it does not
live up to my fantasies, it does not live up to my cerebral
unstable post-breakdown post-art
present-mad brain — and I want to know what
is the point of this question, who cares
if I will be happy in maine? Either I will stay there and be
unhappy or I will move somewhere else
and repeat the cycle; it is like history,
it does not matter.