Rough edged saw of a man.
What a way with words you had.
Blue collar barfly a smoke in lips
put us all in the places we know,
where we feel comfort after all.
Our uncles smell of ***** and
aunts always favor aperitifs
in the afternoons then naps.
Being honest we all crawl in
bars when things fall apart and
we just need comfort of friends
we just met that very day.

Another year killed in cold blood
with nothing to show for it. Tick Tock.
Maps always lead nowhere.
Directions are puzzles.
I'm 71 years old. I still have a brain
and a heart and courage. Dorothy
died awhile ago and I miss her
and her little dog too.
We laughed too loud not long ago.
She'd be 98 and giggle like a girl.

I saw it sprayed on a rock.
  "Why Do You All Hate Me?"
  I thought I don't know you
  so I can't hate you but if
  we meet for coffee I'll try.
  Maybe you'll hate me instead?
Maybe we'll duel at dawn.
Maybe we'll fall madly in love?

My desires stay in their little prisons
like your ******* locked in that bra.
I release them with liquor. They crawl
all over the bar and my mind. I see you
in spotlights on stages waiting for me.
We're young again at the beach with the
rock we dive and swim through and the
sun makes us gold and we **** in bed all
night long and wash our beautiful sins
away in baptism in the morning surf.
I puke in the gutters at closing time.
I stagger to my rooming house and drop
into bed and ache for you all night long
dreaming of you bra free like we met.

Above a billion staring faces
  the world just disappeared.
  Time stopped. We ceased.
  Our souls bled into black ink
  stains and dreams were lost.
  Neither a bang or a whimper.

After all it's just a hollow conceit.
Spill my guts upon a page to muster
some semblance of brilliance.
Shine a spotlight on me and gasp.
When all's said and done I'm the
lonely poet in the garret reading
pencil scratches on old envelopes
wishing they were in Anthologies.

Fragile Genius
He died undiscovered
by his own hand at 26.
He left 3 albums to the world.
It was as if Nick Drake
simply faded away,
a victim not of excess,
but of some profound,
deep-seated unhappiness.
Like Vincent the painter
he rose from his own ashes
to set the music world on fire.