.png)
I'm a paragraph. Click here to add your own text and edit me. It's easy.
The People in the Books I'm Reading
I'm at the computer with my wine
and there's a man outside my building calling
the name of someone he'll never see again
as the drunk poets send me messages
telling me how they're sad
about their latest poems not getting
enough likes and shares
and how they're sad about their unrecognized genius
and their unreviewed books
one tells me of an old lover's suicide
as she spills wine across faded letters
another hasn't slept for days, says she's enslaved
by the phases of the moon
Eddy's muse has skipped town and Jenny's scared
about 30 days in rehab
Anna's stopped drinking and found god
she tells me this time for good
Frank's checking himself into the psych ward
and they took his dog away
Angry Face is mad because I haven't
read his manuscript
and the people in the books I'm reading
are all setting things on fire and committing suicide
it's a bad night all around and I can't
do much for any of it. I'm sad, too
I have my own dead lovers and unreviewed books
and now they're putting the guy outside
into the back of a car as I gaze into
the flashing lights and pour another wine
and when I sit down to answer one of the sad messages
I tell my poet friend not to worry too much
they'll cancel us all eventually.
All The Things That Are Surely Coming
There are moments that come from nowhere
in which I realize I am perhaps more
lonely than I'd imagined, more sad.
In my sleepless hours I consider what's
become of me and I'm not sure what
to make of it. I get up a while and think
about someone who once loved me
and is now dead. I wonder why I didn't
love them more, and if I should have.
I think of a few people I did love
and wonder where they've gone to,
wonder if they'd come back if I
took the time to explain things
a bit. I don't imagine so.
I think of all the things that are surely
coming that I wouldn't wish upon
me or anyone. I wrote this poem
in my head early this morning when
I couldn't sleep. It's late
afternoon now, and I'm trying
to write it down. I think
there was more to it, I should
have jotted things down as they came.
I think there's a pretty good line
that I'm missing somewhere,
it might have tied it all together somehow.
Now I'm thinking of how nothing
is really much after all, and how our
dreams of immortality leave no
impression upon the void.
I understand my own sufferings,
such as they are, don't register much
upon the scale of things, and I've made
a peace with that. We've all got problems,
as my friend is fond of saying (he's
not really my friend). But sometimes
it all comes upon you unexpected,
you know? In any case, there's no
need for drama. It's 4 p.m. here
in San Francisco. The air is filled
with ash from distant fires, and there's
maybe a few beers left in the fridge.