eyes
opened
i
walked like
a
hunchback
to
the bathroom
did
what people do
in
there
made
my way
to
the coffee maker
poured
tried
to soar
i
saw the empty
bottle
of whiskey
i
had bought
only
yesterday
am
i really up to
a
bottle a day?
went
to the bank
deposited
a royalty
check
hit
a bar downtown
my
stomach growled
from
the neglect
i
handed the bartender
my
debit card
ordered
a shot
he
put a shot glass
and
a bottle
in
front of me
and
walked away
does
everyone know
i’m
up to a bottle a day?
i
pulled out a paperback
of
bukowski’s poems
someone
gave me
said
it would be
like
looking in a mirror
she
wasn’t wrong
a
poet is the middle of winter
by
an ice cold sea
on
an overcast day
i
don’t want to drink
a
bottle a day
but
i also won’t
leave
this bar
until
i am drunk
i’m
suppose to be
writing
a play
about
a parrot
with
a pirate
on
his shoulder
but
all i’m doing
is
getting older
consummating
my
marriage
with despair
what
will it be like
when
the honeymoon
period
is over?
i
think i’m gonna go
down
to the ocean
go
for a long walk
on
the sand
hold
my writing notebook
like
i’m holding someone’s hand
skip
all the bars
watch
all the cars
hurry
until
i realize
sometimes
the
best thing to be
is
a poet on the beach
at
midnight
under
a moon
that
is nothing more
than
a cold lifeless stone
but
still it can reflect
the
rays of the missing sun
and
illuminate the whole
landscape
of the night
***
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