poem of the day 08.09.11

wild beast

it is hard
when the wild beast
just sulks away
when you are used
to him breathing down your neck
each morning
when he cowers in the corner
and you sit there with the day
taunting him
saying, come on, you bastard
just scare me into
one more good line
but the wild beast
haunches like a grandmother
checking his email
and the baseball scores
you wonder when it was
that he ceased to be so raw
when it was
that the fear of him left you
for you fear nothing now
but you cannot write
about a thing
except the wild beast
sitting there
doing his nails
watching neighborhood dogs
take their morning shit
this wild beast
he used to pummel you
with words
he’s the one who told you
that the art world
was full of shit
he’s the one who said
give it a go, kid, before
i rip your face off
but now he sits there
on the bed
flipping through magazines
and postcards of van gogh
hoping that the yankees won
while you’re stuck
at the machine alone
bad stomach and coffee breath
forty new hours of hell
breaking your back
missing this
wild beast
knowing that you’d kill
the man who tamed him
the one who took his verve and roar
the one who made
mincemeat of his balls
even if it meant
taking your own life too.