hot night

like this, sitting in my shorts, listening to the tenor
garnering his applause on the radio
all the way from Cleveland.
never made Cleveland on the bum.
when I was a bum it was an almost romantic
matter.
you chose your career as a bum.
now too many are tossed out there.
the streets crawl with them.
it’s not good.

I sit here in my shorts on a humid night
now listening to Ravel with my gut hanging out
over my shorts.
my soft white gut.
I draw on this cigar, inhale, then blow steams of
blue smoke from my stupid
nostrils.
Ravel waltzes.

I read a letter written to me in admiration.
then I rip it once, twice, three times, trash
it.
girls send me photos of their naked
bodies.
blank-faced, I set my lighter to them,
turn them to black twisting
ash.

it’s midnight and I’m too dumb to
sweat.

“oil and gas,” says the man on the radio
“for the nation’s energy needs.”

“fuck you, buddy,” I said.

I scratch my balls, yawn, rise, walk
toward my little refrigerator to dig out
a beer.

takes me 7 steps to get there.
one for each decade.

and nobody can figure out how
they built the
pyramids.