I ain't goin' back to Maggie's farm no more
To thatch that old black barn
Already done it twice
Done that thing most my life
Someone else's turn now for sure

Ain't gonna work for Maggie's brother don't you see
He'll not be using me
Bought his wife an Aston Martin
For turning forty three
He couldn't even bother  
To make a cup of tea

It all seems so appealing
When you're young and fit
Thirty five years later
Feel I've done my bit

Been a faithful servant
Couldn't ask for more
Now I'm looking forward
To the final straw

Coffee and cigarettes
Minus the cigarettes
And plus more coffee. I guess.
And crisp weather
That makes my nose cold
But leaves my shoulders
Almost completely exposed.
I'm sneezing into a one hundred-year-old book
Thinking about what I'll look like
In one hundred years.
Dust in the ground
Covered in old coffee stains
Ink on my fingers
Mellow face. Same as now.
Can I not be buried on a park bench?
Can I not sleep with espresso in my system?
Must I be dust inside of this
Ever moving and never happy
Always destructive
Ground.
I'd much rather be ground coffee.
Than dust.
So I guess I'd like you to bury me in black
But sing Queen at my funeral.
And give me coffee before I go.

I don't know any weak men, only boys.
Which is okay to be. But nothing to aspire to.
My preference is men. Men who need no one.
Men who don't love.
Love is for boys. Love is for girls.
On playgrounds, playing Mom and Dad
And lasting as long as Mom and Dad.
Men and women like. And want.
And when they must love, they lust
In the most passionate display of love Hollywood has ever
Been privileged not to destroy
With a *** domain name.
Men are boys who grow up and adjust to the needs
Of themselves as men who were once boys.
And let life direct them towards what they can become.
And then become it.
Men rise to the challenge while boys challenge it.
And while they are punched and beaten
Blood will not slow them down.
Men are not weak. Neither are boys.
But boys are not men. And boys are not for me.

she had an uncle who spent
twenty years in the ring,
landing solid blows until  
he landed
in a downtown Oakland hotel,
older than he, wrecking ball got it
in the dawn of the cyber age
but for ten droning years,
it was his cage

he never had a title shot
but he kept his belly full
and had cash for the women, the drink  
never drove a car, cabbies knew him
and knew the smell of gin meant
“keep the change”
  
when his legs got weak
and his left eye went to blur
the money stopped rolling in  
but he still thirsted for the gym, the gin
he got himself a gig at Big G’s  
just enough hours to clean out the showers,
to keep the johns from smelling of ****,  
and a few greenbacks comin’ his way  

he would end each day
alone in his room, inhaling the gloom  
that seeped over the transom  
like smoke from a smoldering fire  
but there was no fire left in the ancient hotel  
or Parrot’s burned up belly  
only fading memories
of a wounded warrior  
who taunted his opponents
by mimicking every word they said  
in the ring, where he earned a bird’s name  
but never its sweet song, before time
took its tattered toll

A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;
And from the west,
Where the sun, his day's work ended,
Lingers as in content,
There falls on the old, grey city
An influence luminous and serene,
A shining peace.

The smoke ascends
In a rosy-and-golden haze.  The spires
Shine, and are changed.  In the valley
Shadows rise.  The lark sings on.  The sun,
Closing his benediction,
Sinks, and the darkening air
Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night--
Night with her train of stars
And her great gift of sleep.

So be my passing!
My task accomplished and the long day done,
My wages taken, and in my heart
Some late lark singing,
Let me be gathered to the quiet west,
The sundown splendid and serene,
Death.