wine pulse

this is poem #25 telling about how it’s 2 a.m. and I’m still at the
machine drinking and listening to the radio and smoking this
hell, I don’t know, sometimes I feel like Van Gogh or Faulkner or
one of those–say Stravinsky; I just keeping drinking the wine and
smoking, and there’s nothing more magic or gentle than this, that’s
why I tend to talk about it, I want to keep the luck going…
some critics say I write the same thing over and over.
well, sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t but when I do the
reason is that it feels so good, it’s like I’m making love to
myself, but not really–it’s to this machine, 2 a.m., the wine…
if you knew what I had here you would forgive me
because you and I know how temporary any graciousness is, and so
I play and brag and repeat:
it’s 2 a.m.
and I am
settling for everything:
one sweep of cigar smoke
another glass of wine
and the beautiful young girls
the criminals and the killers
the lonely mad
the factory workers,
this machine here,
the radio playing,
until what will happen to you
happens to me.

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