1
I look at
my shredded fingertips,
turning gray from Ernie Ball string,
from obsession playing the instrument.
I look at
the only evidence
of any of that
ecstatic crucible
into my hands,
the technicolor
of each pile
of felt-tip paintings,
the endless rows
of recording
that I can
only navigate
by seconds, and by minute,
and I am
deflated.
not a single
work
was finished.
again,
nothing
could be used.
2
I look at
the hours flaying me
on my acoustic guitar, and the days
trapped in each sheet of sketches
spent sleep deprived and starving,
alone, not bathing
or speaking; just
drawing. drawing until
the pain reached
too high a threshhold
to be able
to endure,
but i did again and again this
in between those great periods
of being an invalid,
in the hope of something
to be proud of.
I decide I'll go for a walk
to the 7/11.
I buy a 40 dollar bottle
of my favorite Whiskey,
of Jameson and
I get a pack,
not the usual kind, not my favorite--
Marlboro Red One-Hundreds,
but I get a pack
of Parliament Light One-Hundreds
this time.
I go home, and I drink.
half the bottle. light a cigarette, play
one of my favorites--
those songs
from the 1990's.
I sit down
on the floor of my bedroom and
I cut open
my arms
with a pencil.