i hear someone

walk through the door 

and keep staring

at my drink, 

expecting another old man

in the dive bar

 

so I’m surprised 

to see nice legs and a skirt

walk up next to me,

wait patiently 

for the bartender on the phone

and when she asks for

whiskey on the rocks, 

i feel my imagination run

to the end of its leash

pull,

pull,

but I’m sturdy

going back to my beer.

she downs her whiskey and leaves.

somebody says,

“did you see that girl?

what was she doing here?”

american monotony

yawns another

stretch of sky

for me to

dwell in.

it’s noon

on a saturday.

i’ve had my coffee

and jerked off,

only to put on

Brahms no. 3

and ride the violins

toward my own

horizon.

 

they say

everybody needs

a hobby.

i just like

being alone.

having a cookie

with my coffee

and enduring

the obvious wait

on the rest of my life,

countless hours

fulfilling dull tasks

for money that’s never enough–

open skies with no room

for your soul.

all those bodies

stuffed into the train

and not one mind.

everything going,

going,

going,

and we can’t

say where.

when the booze

starts working

and the stomach

is empty,

as the brain

echoes into

its own image–

i suffer

leopard farts

and greek drama:

persona coming out

another hole

twisted like turd cursive.

 

i put it

in a frame

and ask you

to hang it

on your bathroom wall.

 

you don’t want to offend…

 

may we both

get this shit

over with.