6/24 Hours

Midnight presumes, like summer tales, the promise of dawn
But the scoot of cars, drone of whistle & sudden silence
slaps hermetic face to gross awakening:  Sleep will not
solve the death of bodies, decay of brains, the freezing

Of fire in the limbs that crush the demons of art wheezing:
My words are the same, do not approximate all things
lately perceived:  how friends have forgotten, cheated,
hassled for the penny, hobbled over seas, memories on skid

Or the kids are growing fast, wife struggling with her job
to keep love intact, & lords from shrieking.  Man, I’m
stoned!  & I spit the poems I haven’t written

& will never write, bitches I shall never lay, money
I shall never take…Baby, It’s cold & dark outside
& the bulb that hangs by the window silently expires.

This entry was posted in Imaginary Russian Roulette and Other Poems. Bookmark the permalink.

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