March 1st

March 1
to you

Late afternoon
& I’ve
yet to get
out of bed
I checked a few
websites & read &
now I’ll write
(I think) my wife
has left
to shop & rain
is falling starting
to calm down
now I can hear
each drop on
the apartment’s roof
it sounds
aluminum but
isn’t or to be
honest I don’t
know I should
pay more attention.
When water was-10,
15 minutes
from the sky
grey but blue
too & chunks
of the sun
poking through here,
there- O
in the storm
I couldn’t hear
a raindrop only
the thunder of
it all & now
in the after-
math one metallic
raindrop is happy-
I guess- in
the world (the world
is too)-but I am
anxious nervous
that I may
begin counting
each 1- death is
always in
my stomach, that’s
been recorded, yeah?
but if
insanity or getting
there isn’t worse-
Did you
try to poison me?
I get up,
pace my wife
before she left
cleaned & she
put my books
into shelves (I prefer
them on the ground
near my bed-
I read & write
a lot &
sleep & fuck
& watch TV in
bed. Truman
Capote wrote in
his bed I read)
I take books off
of shelves & here
this very second
the bed is
littered with books
it’s a mess
& she was
already not happy
with me
because I got drunk
alone last night
@ my corner bar
wrote at
least two ok
poems, Napkin Songs,
while there
got high with
some guy I
don’t remember he
was fat with
small glasses
& I bought him
rum & cokes
for a few hits
off his wax
pen we smoked
right in front
of the bar
near security, O
yeah his name
was Mike nice
enough I like
bars that are
brown & older
bartenders who will
give you a pencil
when you ask
for 1. I got
home before 2:
1:38 AM
written on a
napkin & passed
out on the couch
listening to Elvis
Costello’s first album
which will always
be a thing that
brings me ecstatic
joy! When I was
4 my dad was
24 & he got
a CD player along
with My Aim is
True, Little Creatures &
Who’s Gonna Fill
Their Shoes. All
great albums but
I don’t
think I’ve ever
heard any album
so much as
Elvis’s debut people
tell me This Year’s
Model’s better but
I was 4 & 7 &
21 I’m sure EC
became a more
mature thoughtful
songwriter & I like
even love much
of his later
work yet the
snarl on the
record & the
sadness that rings
my joy when
it plays Welcome
to the Working
Week-what an
opener!-it plugs
me into the
many selves I’ve
ever been &
my skin shivers
& I feel
ecstasy in
being earthbound
I don’t know
what it is
another thing
that album has
going for it is
the mess unpolished
because while I
love OK Computer or
Sgt. Pepper or even
Back in Black give
me a mess
Tusk, Tonight’s the
Night, White
Album, Blonde
on Blonde
I could go on-
Those fucked-up
ones, they are
beautiful too &
in them you can
hear the dust on
the microphone or
the percussion of
a Kleenex box the
I might even
every other day-
prefer Beach Boys
Love You to Pet
Sounds. Really, though,
both ways are great
I’m glad of
them, the polished
& the dinged, my
life is good made
better by music
everyday. We should
praise God, gods,
goddesses, chance or
nothing never. She was
mad & did the
dishes showered
I was a bit
jangly with drink
in the late morning
watching angels
spring training
& she was not
happy with the
staying out &
the mess I make
with books my
papers everywhere
I understand
but in my
defense I love them
near me
on the floor-though
I am willing to
compromise I think
of myself as decent
& improving I
worry this
a better man may
be killing my
most inner
ferocity for excess
we get older
& I survived
surprise but
still I want
everything again &
again I hear
this changes
when you have
kids- I want kids,
then, I don’t
know. Who knows?
The option
is nice though I
rarely use coke
anymore it
would cause
a problem in
my marriage &
I used to
be able to lie
but now? Now I can’t.
Always been a
guilty person
and that fills
me with dread
does daily
although the not
lying that’s one
of those good
qualities to have
I wouldn’t feel
as If I’d
lied if I
got high or
took pills
on a workday
& didn’t tell
her, she
doesn’t care I
don’t think. She
know I’ve had
problems with drink-
I watch myself
it’s not
for me because I
have 1 beer I’d
rather have
a blackout. I’ve taken
to writing notes
to myself while
drinking so I
can piece
oblivion together
& I did this
morning. My jangle
from drink
fleeing my
skin has subsided
I think of all
the books I have
& will never read
it makes me
uneasy yet that’s
a better problem
to have
than not enough
Is it
not? When I
face a blank
page & write
or attempt to
I try to quiet
my brain so
as to be
& here I am, still
naked in the
bed. Before my
wife left
we made up
& she gave me
a blowjob
we didn’t make
love she’s on
her period (I don’t
care, we have
I’m always thankful
when I don’t
do it myself &
I love her
& even if it’s
no big deal like
you just want
to cum real
fast there’s
still love &
beauty & bliss!
My mind is
beginning to
turn on me
& I’ve done nothing
wrong that
I can think
of. Outlines of
blankets, lamps, book
shelves go blurry
my heart
beat doubles then
triples I can’t
do this. I take 3
xanax and 3
klonopin. Give me
45 minutes &
a drink. When my
nervous breakdown
comes my
wife will drive
me to the
hospital. I don’t
want that to
ever happen (Who
would?) but
I’ve thought
of it often
If it was quiet
& full of
peace, being
in an institution
wouldn’t be the
worst thing
to ever
happen to me
I could be alone
& think, just


I put this one because I’m new to sharing work with strangers and while not my best poem or anything it’s honest and may shed some light on the way I think…although it is a speaker and you shouldn’t confuse this asshole with me or the author or whoever…plus, I write some elegant poems too…




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