Tuesday, February 23, 2016

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.

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