Is nothing special really
I am in my blue checkered boxers
Wearing an unbottoned green flannel
Getting ready for my fourth beer
Listening to classical that I only
Listen to when I drink and/or read
And/or write
And I keep shutting off the typewriter and picking up
James Thurber and the Goethe
And I keep thinking
Wait until spring Suarez
It means something to me today
And then I drop it all
To pick up the beer
There are grapefruits and a cactus
In a broken planter on the tile floor
There is soil and coffee grounds
Down there too
And used shaving razors and Q-tips
And old beers and bad poems
And this one should be there with all
The other trash
But it's here instead
Oh well...
The life and
The sun and
The breeze and
The lungs
Oh well...
Last week I accidentally
Smashed my bookcase while I was
Drunk
And now there are three horrifying
Stacks
Beside my bed
And I hope their dusts
Infect me with their cancer
Forever
Oh well...