poem of the day 11.09.10

painter

i wish that i was a painter
if i were a painter
i wouldn’t be sitting here
right now
nursing a wine and scotch
hangover
trying to write poems
trying to beat the sun
i’d still be in bed
if i were a painter
i’d be in bed dreaming picasso
or van gogh
i wouldn’t be listening
to the wind blow
or neighbors leaving for their
miserable jobs
i’d be thinking about
oils and acrylics
i wouldn’t be wiping up jism
from the bedroom floor
as the morning dj gives me
the sports report
i’d be listening to charles mingus
instead of dvorak
sketching a naked woman
instead of looking at nude starlets
on the internet
if i were a painter
i wouldn’t have to deal with
the small presses
just the big gallery owners
they’d give me wine and cheese
instead of rejections notices
they’d give me money
instead of contributor copies
if i were a painter
that is, if i were a good painter
i could lay in bed
and stare at the ceiling
thinking that i had it all
over on monet
i could do one painting a year
and live like a king
instead of wiping my ass
with hundreds of unknown poems
i’d buy a flat screen television
if i were a painter
fifty-six inches of bliss
and i’d watch every show
that the hoi polloi
was talking about
i’d watch the shows while
i painted
incorporating the thin plots
into my landscapes
and portraits
i’d watch action movies
and political debates
i’d drink the good booze
if i were a painter
french wine from alsace
vodka in glass bottles
not that plastic jug rot gut
wine and scotch
the kind that gave me a hangover
this morning
making me wish that
i were a painter
instead of a poet
because drunken poets
are a dime a dozen
and no whore ever rejected
a poet’s bloody ear.