(may
i be in heaven
a half an hour
before the devil
knows i’m dead
-an irish prayer)
do
any of my readers
remember
jenny?
we’re
still married
mother
of my child
i’m
running wild
on
checks filled with royalties
though
most of that income
goes
to them
they
never lack for anything
i
stop by sometimes
my
daughter cries,
“daddy!”
and
runs to my arms
sometimes
jenny even feeds me
and
this proud, disdainful
poet
philosophical
feels
like the kind of loser
who
has lost everything
by
the simple act of being me
yet
here i am again
whiskey
beneath my skin
lack
of meals making me thin
mastering
the art of lighting
a
cigarette in the santa ana winds
while
walking
when
people call me an asshole
i
ask,
“have
we not met?”
but
back to the plagiarism of my soul
and
the millions of law suits i could file
against
all the other artists’ guile
claiming
disassociation as a vocation
there
is no loser like me
i
lay sole claim and all copyright
on
gold leaf pages, leather bound
vibrating
the sound
of
a world found
better
by my self-destruction
until
earth is eradicated
by
the error of my existence
***
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