winter song.

May 13, 2009

I’m writing you nightly notes, these days
the ghost of Bukowski on one shoulder
Williams on the other
the room smelling faintly of soap and gin.

By the end of the night we’re all the same
punchdrunk on words running off the page
dripping, pooling – faster and faster
puddling between the shotglasses and spectacles
trying our best not to think about
the plums in the icebox
you were saving
for breakfast
as we kneel
before the tigers
who will not let us be.

The lights go on,
I tremble
as white petals, adjectives, and applause cascade to the floor
before we stand before all of Rome before the fall of Rome.

The gates raise
expostulation gives way to acquiescence
beside me I hear William’s faintest sigh
and Chuck brazenly announces
“At last
the tigers have found us
and we do not care.”


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