poem of the day 09.30.15

cleveland interlude

calvin calls talking mad

something about cleveland

and have you seen….

have you gone…

so we’re west on pa turnpike

passing all the vast pa farms

with stand-up cows grazing in bowing grasses

does standing mean rain or no?

these silly superstitions we make to explain it all

calvin smoking my cigarettes

talking about relationships

i tell him i still haven’t figured out

the end of mary he loves some laura

we hit cleveland off 77 north

really cleveland is no bigger/smaller than pittsburgh

hit e 9^th street north harbor complex

lake erie stench glass pyramid rock and roll hall of fame

$13 dollars of blood and sweat money for

and have you seen…

have you gone….

did we even last an hour in there?

music doesn’t need a hall of fame need just be heard

we walk lakeside street dying of hunger

i tell myself i’ll remember cleveland

as gray city smoke stacks mills along the river

shuffling people with heads down waiting for forever buses

just another dirty city dead on sunday afternoon

rubber stamp sculpture blues outside their library

calvin stops everyone on the street

asking for open restaurants

tired clevelanders ending weekends

they don’t know what’s open they smell the pittsburgh on us

euclid street comes to us like a dream

big italian festival with $4 dollar sausages and $2 beer

cleveland girls walking around in pre-summer sex strides

filled with food with girls we walk in wonder

talking excitedly these young lives we’re living

two old friends feeling comfortable

in cleveland for no other reason but to be

calvin tells me great secrets

that i’ll never repeat here

or by christ even in heaven

if there really is a heaven

when this circus finally ends.                                         

poem of the day 09.29.15

calling marilyn

sitting here

listening to the

lonely scratching voice of mark eitzel

singing a goffin/king song

that i don’t know the name of

marilyn’s phone number

on the nightstand next to an untouched pepsi

jesse says shit or get off the pot

as if it’s that easy

like looking up the addresses

and birthdates of coeds on library computers easy

like how he randy and i spent the night

cyber stalking girls in sundresses on the campus

that has already forgotten me

all these women get younger every year

but i wonder when they’ll be easy

probably when i’m old and don’t care anymore

when they cease to recognize me

when the world finally fails to see me

i think i should just throw away marilyn’s number

walk the earth like cain

finish this pepsi oh anything

but sit here and let mark eitzel make me feel worse

looking around a room full of

beatles posters kerouac posters

liz phair wet and american-flag draped

feeling bad for myself

i clutch the number clutch the phone

dial in a mad sweat

marilyn isn’t even home anyway, you fool

i fall back on the bed in a fever

shat and got off the pot, grochalski

imagine that

calling a woman as simple

as pinching a loaf

of glorious morning dung.

                                  

poem of the day 09.28.15

replacement umbrella blues

wednesday night i sit

in dead rosebud café

nursing budweiser specials

calvin waiting on a woman

it’s so hard for calvin to meet anyone

worse than me he keeps falling in love

with the girls he works with

they keep falling in love with everyone else

i realize i’m still wet because the rain pissed on me

the umbrella portia gave me

to replace mine a month after the fact

fell apart on craig street

so i was soaked all the way through

pittsburgh has been a monsoon since march

and i should’ve called portia on monday

she left tuesday now it’s wednesday

and calvin keeps checking his watch

i think i still haven’t called marilyn

when did i become someone

with so many people that i had to call?

calvin says, so what’s going on?

as if we haven’t seen each other in weeks

as if we hadn’t been here in rosebud not four days before

picking each other up off the floor

of another beer-drunk saturday night

i should tell him my grandmother is dying

cancer here cancer there cancer everywhere

she has no hair now and can hardly get food down

the fiery whiskey throat of her life going out

but calvin takes grandmothers hard

like he takes women and falling in love

and i don’t think this woman is showing up

so i tell him the fucking umbrella died on me

he shakes his head like it’s this grave

understanding between us

umbrellas die like grandmothers die

like romance dies and phone call never get made

i finish my beer and order another round

get up from the bar to piss

as calvin leans back to check the front door

i tell myself i’ll write portia a letter explaining everything

i’ll tell her the umbrella works like a charm.

                                                          

poem of the day 09.25.15

vicious mystery

all women

all men

all people

all of it a vicious mystery

and so i chase marilyn

waited fifty minutes in sick sweat

sweat-matted hair

ears red

follow her down cathedral steps

through vast collegiate corridors

and i track her down

like prey

this vicious mystery woman

call her by her god-given name

marilyn

marilyn

she turns in wind-blown sad pittsburgh gray

smiling like she’s known me forever

talk such rapid talk

in one minute

i find out her major (sociology)

career goals (social worker)

home state (new jersey)

forty minutes out of new york

artist mother

artist father

what does she even ask me?

still she says

you should move to new york

move to the village

become a stereotype

(or do i think this?)

and through all of these months of pitied hell

i felt and hell i probably looked like

i ask her out

promise big holy pittsburgh saturday nights

in big holy pittsburgh bars

glorious drunks

marilyn says she’s a prude

won’t get drunk

ah, hell, i say

i’ll get drunk for all of us

she doesn’t laugh

i tell her this spring will die

this summer will come

you should come out with me

i say

yes, she says

or maybe, she says

but first new jersey, she says

we walk away so bashful with plans

her phone number

clutched in sweaty hand

immediately i sink into me

thinking one date

leads to two dates

leads to a relationship

comfort

complacency

then alienation

break-up desolation

i slap my face and say

what are you doing?

i turn

marilyn not even a speck on big pitt campus

walking huddled

across bigelow boulevard

coal hair blowing up

she looks back

she waves

and i know

i’ve already ruined this

                                               

poem of the day 09.24.15

the king of america

brooklyn blows

trump gas

5^th avenue

apple hookah smells

for a tuesday night

i think

i mean i hope

they never fix this liquor store sign

so beautiful

half-pink neon

uor

like an exotic language

mixing with the night

my stomach hunger growls

at the scent of kabobs

lamb pyramids

hanging in restaurant windows

i walk

behind two arab girls

big american flag bags

slung over

small shoulders

talking pop music

new tv shows

still not enough evidence

for him

who

dips down low

sneers in their faces

says something i cannot hear

stop stuns them

walks off

ofay proud

like the king of america

strolling home

on a dead

summer

night.

                                    

poem of the day 09.23.15

waterlogged

and then

there is portia

portia with her boyfriend

sweet portia whom i’m infatuated with

and you want to know

where i was on tuesday?

face deep in three pints

because i couldn’t be anywhere near you

sit next to you in this class anymore

january to april and i’m worn down of you

because some tortures are too simple

portia with her boyfriend

and your cat got out?

and your dui last summer?

and how you shouldn’t be buying

or drinking alcohol?

so much happens in a week!

portia wants to know why i haven’t

visited her at aussie’s yet

portia with her boyfriend

she says she’s quitting come the twenty-second

portia talks like she’s on speed

and because i want her to keep going

i interject as little as possible

she wants to know

what i think about her maybe staying

in the city this summer

i think the sun and moon and stars about it

but i tell her that’s pretty cool

portia with her boyfriend

at the arts festival regatta fireworks at the point

on the south side shadyside squirrel hill

polish hill lawrenceville bloomfield north side

her big eyes red hair lip ring

in my bars in my clubs

a damned shroud over junejulyaugust

portia wants to know why i still haven’t

come down to the sharper edge for a pint

i laugh i tell her i will really will

once i pick which of one of

these three blessed rivers

i’m gonna go down

and drown my sorrows in

poem of the day 09.22.15

not my kind of girl

she’s cute yes

has a dorky charm

sneaks up on me at the bus stop

camel lights and all cassandra-filled me

says she’s carnie

which has me thinking circus folk

the fat chick from wilson-philips

oh, i don’t have time

to be cordial this morning

politically correct

a stone-cold gentleman

it’s late march and i’ve had it with the year already

have a cough from giving portia my umbrella

and getting stuck in the goddamned new spring rain

but carnie says she knows

some brother/sister combo i no longer do

says she’s an english lit major

but i never see her in any class

kris and i no longer go to anymore

this carnie translucent ghost white skin

her straight brown hair has tints of ruby

she stands like someone is getting ready to scold her

a punished dog

a soaking wet cat shivering in the cold

i bore her with bored babble because it’s all that i got

wonder why every time i meet one these types

i get apocalyptic visions of the future

i mean where are the knockout brown skinned girls in my life

danger nicotine-scented mouth women

who can fuck up and down frankstown road?

would they scare me?

carnie likes matthew sweet and the gin blossoms

she’s read kerouac, yes

but….

she probably likes to cuddle afterwards

i wonder would it be improper to check my watch

gee, the bus is never this late, i say to my fate

putting on my headphones

to slip into a d’angelo brown sugar haze

carnie says, hey, i’ve met your mom too

and man

i just know this thing

ain’t gonna work out.

poem of the day 09.21.15

the college failure

i think marilyn is making eyes at me

i think all women adore me

two months of this torture

i gear myself pump myself tell myself

kid, this is the day

lunch or anything to push me past dumb stares

marilyn and her post-class routine

the pitt news and lunch at roy rogers

bottom floor of the cathedral of learning

i’d make my last bold custer move

flying down cathedral stairs

i get smacked in the head with a paper roll

kris in bearded flannel saint mode

we tumble steps talking our british tongue beatle talk

marilyn back in her gray navy clutching books

she always dresses so goddamned nice

whisper to kris secret words about her

my grand plan my last front in this war

and then i’m a done gone thomas merton monk saint

no more women no more heartache

we stand in roy rogers

examine the menu like a fine work of art

our own brown-bagged lunches waiting

poor kris who’s been through them all with me

wendykrissymelaniemarycassandraportia

now marilyn with her tray of junk food

christ, look at all of the ketchup, he says

but i’m sweating mad sick of the smell

of this food this notebook this pen in my hand

useless poem notebook full of blank pages

i make my bow-legged jingle-jangle way across

the weight of gravity this moment of truth

…………..and like that the magic is gone

the wind knocked

marilyn sits her dainty sit with some beast of a co-ed girl

a lion’s mane of hair loudest person in the place

yang to her yin to her yang

i turn to kris

oh, i’m not making a fool of myself in front of that

so we

back in the hallway

kris checking the glass doors of roy’s every minute

to see if the beast leaves our heroine alone for just a second

while i whine and pace and curse the gods

that things never go right

this women business never works the way it should

and soon marilyn and the beast

come rolling past us in girl laughs and giggles

down  the hall and fade to black

the chance gone

what would you have said anyway, kid?

dumbsainted kris and i stumble toward gray light

our stomachs growling for food

the dim promise of something else.

                                                

poem of the day 09.18.15

silly string

road weary

colby stands

in the driveway

red eyed messed hair

90 miles an hour from maryland to pittsburgh

april spring is still a virgin

but he’s wearing jeans shorts

shivering cardboard suitcase

he hasn’t been here in months

we head to my room

lounge in silence

cindy crawford  playboy spread passed around

colby with two jobs in maryland

a party store a chuck e. cheese

where he works the kitchen with russians

hears russian all day

yells back american english to reignite the cold war

he rises and sprays

a can of silly string all over calvin

all over cindy crawford naked and glossy

laughing maniacal

we head further into the suburban abyss

to get drunk on beer

reciting the poetry of kevin smith dialog

monty python sketch scenes

the waitress blush says

i think you better leave after this round, boys

in the parking lot colby silly strings

some rich prick’s porche

and we lie in wait

until he comes out with his little girlfriend

a big bulk of american nothing

ocean city boardwalk bar hoodie and plaid shorts

screaming bloody murder at the sight

he scans the lot

we stifle prankster cackles

as i think how sad it’ll be

to watch colby drive away from all of us

again.

                      

poem of the day 09.17.15

winona soul

winona ryder

could love me i think

watching welcome home roxy carmichael

with kris and angie

winona my last hollywood crush

oh, how she used to make mary so jealous

as if winona would just show up at my home

and whisk me off with her to california

but i think this is a good night

a quiet saturday night at angie’s

tacos tori amos the sea & cake winona soul

i’m not going to think about

how steve told me that i was pussying out

how even calvin got into the act

making whiplashes over the phone

as if i were some kind of kept man

for wanting one night away from the neon drag streets

one morning where the bile didn’t rustle my stomach

i bet winona ryder could love me

like kris and angie holding hands on her couch

like the way they looked last night

toasting martinis and sinatra at the balcony

i bet in los angeles i could learn to love the sun

sit poolside helping winona rehearse

write me a sunset strip blues

but i haven’t written in weeks

just lay in bed sleep listen to liz phair

listen to my old man ask me when i’m getting a job

maybe the next time i’ll tell him

i’m waiting on winona like waiting on godot

to come roaring up our little shit street

in a cherry red convertible singing

i can turn your gray skies blue, ah

before we burn burn burn burn west turning gold.

                                               

poem of the day 09.16.15

drowned rat

wet

b/c it rained

b/c i had no umbrella

b/c i gave it to portia

b/c she needed one

b/c that little drizzle that started on forbes

turned into a monsoon by bellefield

b/c it was raining so hard

water ran like rapids toward gurgling drains

b/c everywhere i walked i kicked up puddles

b/c i stepped in a pothole up to my ankles wet

b/c i tripped and landed on my knee wet

b/c nobody noticed

b/c i can pass these streets like a ghost

b/c i’m a writer bum

wet

and i needed that umbrella

and i didn’t realize that when i gave it to portia

and i didn’t realize it walking up bellefield

and my shirt was drenched

and my jeans were soaked

and my shoes were done for because of that pothole

and gene kelly can kiss my ass

and b/c the 77B bus took forever

and it was raining when i got home

and i never changed my clothes

and i listened to music wet

and had dinner wet

and read henry miller wet

and went to bed wet

b/c i work up the next morning in the same damp jeans

b/c i have the same jeans on again

casing this depressing campus with a sniffle and cough

and i didn’t realize anything until this moment

b/c i’m oblivious to everything

except the fact

that portia has a boyfriend.

                                               

poem of the day 09.15.15

outplayed

portia

walks with me from class to hillman library

as snow turns to rain

spring

i swear it takes too long to get here

and when it does i long for the winter

portia says she has two jobs

one waitressing one bartending

she knows the world about beer

porters and stout and lagers and pilsners

ipas and a swiss white chocolate beer

that sounds like hell

i tell her as long as it’s cold and frothy

but she doesn’t laugh

she stops me in all seriousness

we stand under my umbrella

says, have you ever had a flaming dr. pepper?

close red lipstick lip almost whispered in my ear

like she’d say, let’s just run away from all of this

it’s made with amaretto

i’ll make you one if you ever come down

the sharper edge on friendship avenue

aussie’s on liberty avenue

and i can’t tell her that i was in there

last saturday night

have those bars emblazoned in my mind

calvin and i amidst aging night owls

violet-white neon light

meeting steve to drive off to wherever

rustic shinny wood with a long bar

round wood tables and girls galore

but no portia

and at midnight on the lord’s day

i’m sitting drunk in anthony’s gentleman’s club

more half-naked women dry humping poles

for my hard-earned dollar

portia stops me again and lifts up her shirt a little

pierced belly button under my umbrella

she’s sunburned from a tanning salon

says, this hurts so fucking much

but like a good catholic boy

i make sure

not to look.

poem of the day 09.14.15

sirens

sandy comes to the door

hair wet in something tattered

mutters to calvin about buying a watch

we’re early by forty minutes

one of those nights where calvin and i

have nothing to say to each other

and all i can think as sandy pounds back upstairs

is that she gave colby bad head years ago

after his senior prom

where is colby tonight?

down in maryland down in maryland

all he did was die

calvin leaves me alone with sandy’s fiancé, ray

while he calls in reinforcements for the night

ah, the socialist, ray says

he and i don’t like each other

last time i was here he started in on his whole

white-bread-clean-cut-closet-bigot-conservative-extremist routine

to try and get a rise out of me

so i started in on my

gop-abortion-war-mongering-classist-liberal-extremist rhetoric

but all i could do was sit there sober

wondering if sandy gave him bad head too

ray has no beer for me tonight as well

his fridge as dry as some southern towns

i’m holding one joint in my camel lights pack for later

but might go onto windy forbes avenue

and smoke it now

calvin on the phone with stevetomgeorge

sandy pounding upstairs on her own clock

ray says, you fellas haven’t been drinking tonight already?

strolls like jay gatsby around the place

no old sport, i tell him

but i’m a few up and so is calvin

so i trip stagger down steps

in the car to wherever we play it drunk to scare ray

can feel him clutching my headrest

legs navigating calvin’s backseat full of

coats papers tapes cds bowling balls mickey d wrappers

the passenger seat goes off its hinges again

me sliding back and forth ray sliding yelling

sandy telling calvin to stop the goddamned car

we laugh and tell them it was all a joke

everything except the car seat, old sport, i say

what are we doing tonight? i think

breaking apostolistic bread with these wet blankets

in a strip district primanti bros

with so much to do in the city?

calvin and his mundane loyalties

his jesus christ cyo friendships

his coleslaw and french fries on the side

ray says to me, you don’t believe in god do you?

of course he does, calvin says answering

halfway through my second jack daniels and ginger ale

this joint burning a hole in my pocket

ray finger-waving homosexuals downfall of america

calvin and i leave those lovebird christ children

go outside into the night of the city of my birth

this city of bridges and rivers and holy immaculate disappointments

get high down an alleyway

as women saunter in high heeled majesty

toward rosebud or the metropol

if cassandra is in there tonight

i just know i’m gonna play her fool

stevetomgeorge arrive and we end up in north hills

kangaroo’s bar tv pool tables dart boards

frat boys and frat girls crawling in expensive flannel

women walking around like hooter girls

with neon liquor in test tubes

saying, sex on the beach anyone?

to hootie and the blowfish national anthems

i pump ten bucks into the jukebox

play the whole of oasis (what’s the story) morning glory?

pump pint after pint of buck-fifty honey browns in my stomach

as tom tells the table he’s in love with colleen

as calvin tells the table he’s in love with amanda

as ray and sandy are in love with each other and god

and america and newt gingrich and bad head

as everyone’s in love

colby in maryland in love with a teenager

as i got the cassandraportiamarilyntombstone blues

as steve says, wonderwall? who in the hell played this shit?

as ray and sandy join hands and pray over

a bucket full of chicken wings and fries

i stumble into the men’s room singing

down in kangaroo’s down in kangaroo’s

all i did was die.

                                    

poem of the day 09.11.15

watching the girl

watching the hot dog vendor

drunk on

jasper johns

we stumble from the frick into white light

portia moaning hungry

and i think i’ll catch the earlier bus home

but she pulls me across bigelow

two for two-dollar hot dogs

on the steps of hillman library we eat

me watching the girl

watching the hot dog vendor

screaming red hots! red hots!

flipping dogs and calling out to everyone

sizzling chicken soda can flip top

portia says

she likes watching people

comes from a small town and all of this city

is still insane to her

and it made me smile like a fool

big goof smile

because i’d fallen out of wonder with here

and yesterday’s cold and bright sun

had me on the verge of tears

and the hopelessness can be so overwhelming at times

damned youth hopelessness that can’t see beyond the self

the way we suffer at nothing

only portia

only her bright eyes and smile

let me see how things here weren’t all dead

how she watched everything in the way i wish

i still could

i longed for things to be like they were

i longed for kris to feel the same

for us to sit together on the steps of hillman

no blues

no soul

just me and kris eating hot dogs

but portia she

mustard smiled me ketchup smiled me

with heaven’s cloth i’d wipe her mouth

if only

if only

but our kid’s still not bold enough

to make a simple chess move.                                     

poem of the day 09.10.15

home again

i’ll cop to nothing

i’ll admit to being a little drunk

solemn and angry

because she hadn’t returned my calls

because she stopped talking to me at the job

but i wasn’t driving

this wasn’t my idea

a dozen eggs in calvin’s lap

we drive slowly the frankstown road

horror of both our youths

steve playing his jock rock cd

breath in breath out

he navigates us past closed fast food joints

the 24/7 chain restaurants

packed with bored stoned high school kids

kids that i could never be like here

says, dudes, that club was a dog show

as if he expected more

from a joint in a strip mall

when we see him coming slowly down the road

jogging hugging the berm

frost sweat and steam rising off his body

calvin grabs an egg from the dozen

the electric window rolling down

as steve slows the car to a creep

breath in breath out goes the egg

splattering him he stops starts panting wiping frantically

i catch his what-the-fuck look

what-the-fuck arms in the air

think maybe he was one of the assholes from grade school

as steve kicks the car into gear

tearing down my youth road a mile

this white ghetto suburb that tried to slaughter me

so we can pull into the mcdonald’s

of so many hell scenes so many lovesick moments

to turn around go back and do it again.

                                 

poem of the day 09.09.15

pocket change again

broke

as broke as america wants me to be

these bars

these damned clubs robbing me blind

for a little bit of clarity

but we skip class anyway

pocket change again

i’m a bleary broke follower

kris has all of the answers in his smirk

to bookstores

down used cd alleyways

cups of coffee in the beehive

that burn our flesh as we walk rickety steps

but we won’t sue

though i could use the cash

it’s good to not be on the campus

it’s taken our soul and our money

left only questions and desolation

i have debt i haven’t even realized yet

kris says he’s moving in with angie

once we graduate

from these environs

this student loan subsidized respite

from the countless women i can’t stop chasing

like a low bent groucho marx

cigarette in my mouth on the cathedral of learning’s lawn

when i’m not chasing them drunk

on friday saturday nights

can i graduate from this life too?

he says, maybe you could move in

an instant vision of poems

of novels

of coffee and soft music

but i’d just be infiltrating a young love nest

also and give my mother nothing to worry about

when i’m stumbling in drunk somewhere else?

but there is d.c. to consider

colby and whatever dilapidated hell he’s discovered

calvin wants to get a place

but his mother still cuts the crust off of his pb&j

i’m so west so i’m west

go west young man

like kerouac

but i’m so broke

i shouldn’t even be discussing moving out

so we discuss the world instead

the hours pass

somewhere in whatever class it was we skipped

someone has made a point

someone else has refuted it

student loan subsidized intellectuals

soon we’ll all have jobs

that’ll make us as sad as our parents

and everyone else

one grand nationwide parity in pursuit of the dream

this afternoon could last forever

afternoons only last in poems

and kris

and me

we parted company

so soon

you see

i walked the cold

pittsburgh streets

alone

again.

                                              

poem of the day 09.08.15

buffalo wings

            --for d-shot

some dive so far out of the city

we don’t believe that it exists

but george and carrie are telling us

that this great band is playing

and bands play every saturday night

so that’s nothing special

this joint is so far

you can’t even see the pink hue of pittsburgh in the sky

when we reach this magical far off place

they charge us five bucks at the door

and you see there aren’t the usual club girls here

or the punk party girls from east carson street

but the beer is cheap

buck and a quarter a draft

so we park at the bar

promise george and carrie we’ll get the beer

and the chicken wings slathered in buffalo sauce

two orders and two pitchers

but we don’t move from our pock-marked glitter-red stools

we listen to the muffled sound of the band

watch the townies dance

oh, how did we get here calvin?

we’ll never talk again like we do this night

rapid fire about girls and life and our desires

selfish sucking down the two orders of buffalo wings

and two pitchers of beer

without even thinking about anyone else

sitting there like lifelong friends

like brothers, you say

sharing a pack of smokes in between the food and drink

like the only fools in the place

and later on, drunk and gobsmacked by fleeting youth

i see you slow dancing with carrie

you look like two delicate angels

underneath such soft lights

i pray to anything just to make time stop.                              

poem of the day 09.04.15

11:58 a.m at the panther hollow inn

third beer

back of the bar

smell of french fries for the first lunch comers

air thick with oil

i look up the long steps

that lead to long bathrooms

think it too much a journey

lonesome traveler at my side unread

where i’m at

surrounded by old brick and college pennants

old waitresses

old bartender who examined my i.d.

like fine wine in the light

who on this campus

is sitting getting drunk at 11:58 a.m.?

no, 11:59

and soon the place will be swarmed

with traffic from craig street

with library janitors and clerks

with shop owners

with bank tellers and comic book merchants

watch the old waitress slip on grease

yell, goddamnitphil

grease oozing down the walls

to the sea green tile floor

i wonder if i have time for another beer

would only make me miss

maybe half the american art class

but four beers would

ensure a conversation with the red-head girl

portia bauer

got the name on only three beers last week

three beers and french fries

then dropped my books

my notebooks my journal

all over frick fine arts auditorium

DRUNK, she said laughing

two fat bald men drinking the same as me

three well-dressed ladies walk in the phi

then out

eat the rich

high noon now

officially my first liquid lunch

i watch a library janitor stumble in

to an already poured beer

like clockwork he plays the slot machines

like clockwork the jukebox plays bob seger

pittsburgh you common whore

in the glare of a cold bright march afternoon

phil cleans the grease

only to grease again

shit, i remember its kris’ twenty-second birthday

hoisting my pint class student

sucking down the last dregs of colorado piss diet beer

i celebrate him

i celebrate myself.