and aw fuck
i gotta be
who again?

the 2012, the 36 inch waist, the 14 to
21 fags a day, the sentences lost
to the air, the tip
toe between paychecks, the 34
years of this life, the how many
bullets in the gun, the how many
drinks have i had tonight, the how many
lovers are left to have, the how many
poems
left to write?

and i go between
*flashing*
*montage*
fetus in an ultrasound
and
Auggie Rodins the
thinker.

guerilla beer poetry vs.
fireplace bong hit civility and
i am king, sunken
into either throne, warm
in the pensive self debate
with myself and myself as
the corporate board at LA-Z-BOY, screaming
in ponder why
has my ass not been offered
a cushion built
for both worlds to rest.

and just so you know, i
started writing again like
a few
weeks ago so
you will and
i am sorry will
have to deal with poems
just like this
until
i remember how to say
what the fuck
i have to say.