poem of the day 02.23.16

portrait of the artist

on the cusp of forty-two

3:20 a.m.

at least that’s what the clock tells me

sweet after scent of vodka

mixing with morning breath

we have had heat again for five hours

in this shithole

but the pipe is already going cold

the bright bathroom lights

causing epileptic eye flutters

as i try to clean cat shit

off the bottom of my right foot

cursing the blind, deaf beast

as she circles the shaded apartment

whining or whatever it is she does these days

that passes for meowing

looking for new and improved places

to vomit to defecate to spread snot

sixteen years old to my way over forty-one

we should probably both

be taken back to bed or put to pasture

my long trying-to-stay-young hair

keeps getting in my face

as i retch and wipe the tar-thick excrement

with wet toilet paper scented with bathroom soap

for a knockout punch of disgusting

and i still have to piss

oh, the things you find yourself doing

on the cusp of forty-two

at 3:20 in the morning

a witching hour lifetime that has spanned

pill-fueled poem writing

soliciting prostitutes

and falling asleep drunk in diners

to cleaning crap off of my bare feet

i wonder what the next twenty will bring

other than cirrhosis of the liver

and turning completely invisible to the young

3:20 in the morning

as i sit on the cold ceramic of the commode

feeling every bit the gray color spectrum of my age

the sound of water running

somewhere in the building

as the cat stares but does not stare at the joke of me

trying to remember what i was dreaming about

what it was socrates said about the unexamined life

or if i should go ahead

and wander fresh footed into the kitchen

to dance with the cockroaches

over one last immortal drink.