poem of the day 09.28.10

poetry and everything else

inside this pseudo-british pub
my fingers greasy
from fish
smelling of malt vinegar
and gluttony
drinking pint after pint of cider
running up a tab
that i won’t want to look at
by the time i’m done
an amount that i know
will wake me up
in shock the next morning
the full bloom of
my careless stupidity
ruining the week before
it has even begun
i think about not writing poems
or anything else
for that matter
and how low a writer
has to get
in order to write a poem
about not writing
(pretty low)
i think the hell with money
the cost of everything
poetry and everything else
that isn’t swirling around
in the red-amber fizz
of this imported
alcoholic bomb
it is good to think this
as the drinks keep on coming
as the tab grows
and the wallet continues to lighten
as the rain begins to fall
all over third avenue, brookyn
football on the television
as some other poor fuck
plays genius writer in his apartment
while i sit here
done, down and out
ordering another sixteen-ounce draft
of my own subscribed legacy.