drinking
a slow murdering rum
I
write a lot
when
I am depressed
and
when I don’t feel
worthy
of Love
and
any of those times
that
I don’t feel
worthy
of the spoken parts
of
my humanity
lately
this is all I feel
it
is not as if
I
don’t see my merits
I
just can’t feel
the
value in them
anymore
so
I spend time
in
books and not
answering
my phone
finding
places
phrases
and rhythms
of
displacement
that can send myself
to
a somewhere
to
an anywhere within
any veneer of comfort
that is still
left
in my skin
so
while I ignore
the
world at large
and
stop checking e-mail
I
find the vapor-whore
of
my poetry
on
my back
like
a monkey
heavy
breathing
I
even start to find
a
stanza that speaks to me
in
two dimensions
paper
doll-ing the rest
of
the words
toy
soldiers stand
at
the ready
die-cast
cars rolling
where
the table leans
into
old floorboards
and
the story is waiting
for
the bait and hook
amid
the dragging clops
of
the coroner’s wagon
with
my body still warm
and still bragging
like
some toe tagged in
a killer last line
EJR
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