poem of the day 12.22.10

....oh when will the self-pity poems end?

the magic almost gone

there is something stuck
in my left foot
maybe glass
but i thought that the glass
was lodged in the bottom
of my right foot
there are slits of skin shaped like gills
that make it hard to walk some days
and the right knee is going
a little bit more each day
i have the neck and shoulders of a tired atlas
my hands are greased with ointment
the pinky fingers on each one
wrapped in fabric bandages
sliced in three spots
victims of the cold
the cuticles are ripped to shreds
each morning it is a medieval blood letting
on these brooklyn streets
my soul is the color of dried blood
the nails are shot
bitten in waves of nerves and anxiety
and there is another rash on my chest
that i keep thinking is skin cancer
i check the bags underneath my eyes
laugh a sad old man’s laugh and do a dance
the gray hair i comb down
with a .99 cent wonder from rite aid
and the beer belly i sculpt
every single day with cups of cheap scotch and wine
packs of pretty girls pass me
and say nothing
they talk in pretty girl rags
to them i am an ugly bird-shit stained statue
what little magic i had, almost gone
women on buses clutch their bags
and move a few seats away
i don’t blame them
looking in the warped mirror
of the public transportation window
blasting ornette coleman in the gloom
i smile and watch the night roll by
i was never a charmer, i think
but i was never all that bad either.