poem of the day 04.12.09

35

35
up too early
with last night’s wine
and rerun baseball
with visions of kerouac
handing his
jewel over
to neal cassady
in the california sun
and my poet friend
breaking up family
fights
on his childhood
streets
with a lunatic killing
cops
at close range
in my hometown
as my mother
cries over
all the bloodshed
in the world

35
the cat’s cry
haikus
for their same meal
and i wonder what
nietzsche would’ve done
with this morning
as i rub lotion
over my rough
and cracked skin
feel a bowel movement
think that my wife
told me
35
is better
than being dead
but she didn’t tell me
they feel like the same thing
still i guess i might as
well be
good at something
so i take a deep breath
in then out

35
i bleed these years
time is a leech
a woman on the clock
a boss watching the clock
and i wonder how long
have i been
stuck in traffic
anyway?
my whole life?
i fondle a bad book
as one cat hops up
next to me
and the mets go up
9-4 over the
cincinnati reds
the sun breaks
through the blinds
and i think spengler
must’ve been right
all those years ago
when he said
the west would
die out.

35
as i pick gray hairs
out of my neck
and chest
as i wait to shit immortal
as i think about genocide
on brooklyn streets
as the world spins
dizzily
as i throw soft words
on the morning pavement
as my mother cries
as my poet friends broods
as the birthday cards don’t
show up in the mail
as england waits
while spain makes
eyes at me
as the world grows
dumber
as rimbaud laughs
in africa
and verlaine feels
the burn of his asshole
and soul

35
i think another
drink
as the sun threatens
my mood
and the cat licks her
tail
as the notebooks yellow
and the reds score another
run
in the bottom of the
7th inning.

04.09.09