October 16, 2012

poem 386 of a poem a day for 2012

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
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


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