(it’s
a long life full of long nights – adam duritz)
ended
up in the e.r.
they
addressed a need to repress
cigarettes,
booze, weed
and
my treatment of water
as
if it is the poison
of
an ancient egyptian asp
i
said a lot of “yes ma’ams”
paid
my tab
stopped
at a liquor store
drained
the bottle outside the door
ate
an edible
lit
a smoke
and
started walking
have
an appointment today
with
my publisher
left
a message
i
won’t be there
breathe
in the smoggy l.a. air
remove
the gauze over a vein
they
profaned with blood tests
i’ve
never confessed
that
with my last breath
i
would beg and apologize
for
me
with
a, “just kidding
i’ll
be everything you approve
if
you just make this bitter bile
bake
in a different oven”
shakespearean
coven around a cauldron
“double,
double, toil and trouble”
bending
the will of the universe
to
not bend to the universe’s will
neither
inspires my verse:
the
witches’ swill and curse
or
the recollect of intellect
for
a complacency chloroform
my
only conform
is
when i form
my
lips around another cigarette
in
l.a. i’m explained away with labels
which
enables court jesters
to
appease the merciless king
enthroned
in the castles of consciousness
“you
mean i’m gonna die doc?”
no
fucking shit sherlock
but
riddle me this batman
do
you really call this living?
if
there really is an answer
then
why isn’t every dancer
dancing
to your pied piper tune?
what
do i really want?
your
fucking cunt
spread
for my need
until
we bleed
among
frailty and greed of friction
don’t
like my diction?
this
poetry blog
is
not an advertisement
for
my books
take
a look
without
being a fish on a hook
nothing
is worth the price of admission
i
write on commission
but
not for money
art
exacts a different payment
which
will only cost you
everything
don’t
call yourself an artist
unless
you’re willing to pay
i
gave art
the
dark streets of decay
but
art is still wanting
with
unsatisfied scorn
that
i be bruised, tattered and torn
history
may adorn memorabilia
with
estimations
that
i was the van gogh of poetry
while
art merely mocks
chuckling,
“sucker”
as
all the reasons i ended up in the e.r.
make
me stop
brace
myself with a hand
against
concrete cold los angeles building
and
try to catch my breath
as
my heart pounds in my chest
all
the drones on their way home
ignore
the homeless hospice on hard concrete
because
no one really cares
and
words are just a mask
that
hides the side
of
you that is only working
for
the benefit package
society
has to offer
embarrassing
coffers pass
your
empty hand
unless
you’re convinced
of
the recompense
of
inconvenience
beyond
being able to sway others
thereby
yourself,
“i
did my part
the
play needs to be carried
by
the lead actors
a
role in which i was not cast”
my
sails may be at half-mast
but
whether you sprint or crawl
the
100 yard dash
the
finish line will always be
when
your ship sinks into the ocean
the
headlines reading,
“lost
at sea like the graphic novel
by
brian lee o’malley
***
No comments:
Post a Comment