They may call you fatty,
scruffy and ugly.
Your name may be vile
and I bet you smell awfully
smokes and ***** and
cheap perfumes of many different
******.
But when I look through you
when I see beyond this fog
and almost feel you inside
I know then
you beat the handsome beasts
you beat them all
with the ruin of your heart that you keep
in the drawer of your bedside table
where you pop off beside
now and then.
And it's usually a.m.
It's always a.m.
Just like now
as another night on earth covers us both
as you wish to be a cat in your next life
as the street-lamp peeps into our loneliness
I raise another glass full of youth and despair.
Toast to you, to me.
To the world who never treats some of his guests nicely.
So
I choose writing.
"it keeps the walls
from
failing.”
I need the sound of the words
making love with the typewriter.
But I make do with a pen and paper.
I know you own a typewriter.
My time,
must be a bit shopworn
Have you ever smiled by doing a bracket after a colon?
Guess nineteen ninety-four was a bad year to be born.
but a nice one to die.
Though congratulations
you did well at the computers
well enough, like everything else
You take things as they come
and life teaches you how to get used to them.
You get used to living, you get closer to death.
It is not a big deal, has never been.
But it is the only deal.
A deal we can't deny.

All I wanted to say was a
"happy birthday"
but not that happy.

@mosquito