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Ron Androla |
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xanax halfway off a chair i don't know four, five, six, plus five, six, seven cans of beer, one chicken taco, dust of leaf in a silver bowl fired into old lungs. to find tranquility is human goal. we momentarily succeed sometimes, rarely, then shit appears on our fingers wiping our faces of age-wrinkles. we're 75 years old & kids are perverse clones. life is one big clown of activity. clown of madness & paradox. rage. smile of rage. a man shits in a toilet. a woman pisses in a toilet. we buy window cleaner the color of blood. it IS blood. xanax in a chair i sit here slowly i sit here back-spacing typing mistakes galore for what? oh, jellygun's birthday. a poem i'm writing. this poem. these ridiculous fingers. this ridiculed mind. mine. self-defacing voice of me saying i'm a slut. i'm a poetry slut. there are dishes to wash. garbage to take down to the dumpster. tomorrow ann takes her daughter back to virginia. i'm staying home to clean the apartment up. i have xanax. i will very calmly clean. what? it's yr birthday? wet slop shiver from dark womb depths into here, now. buncha packed molecules in the form of a man. 32 years of molecules! happy birthday, nicholas amerika is a fucked up land. so is england. so what. nothing, nobody, is free. freedom is illusion. we are bound within prisons of language & response. so what. most lovers are liars & emotional lunatics. most men are utterly alone, two eyes in the world of 12 billion eyes. so the holy fuck what. we dream. we hallucinate. we love. we hate. so what. most of the human race is dead under our feet. yet the molecule of air that swirled thru the nostril of bukowski is the same molecule of air you just burp. existence has nothing to do with making sense, with logic or purpose. fuck it. drink up! it's yr birthday! it's my birthday & i'll laugh if i wanta black guinness draft cans, a 4-pack gift from ann. cait's last sock: pre-dawn prelapsarian enlightenment. benzo, maybe an ambien, it'll be dreamland on my birthday, appropriately enough. 48 years is a long life, it is. especially for a poet with bad heart genes. cancer genes. insanity genes. diabetes genes. anxiety genes. oh shut the hell up androla: pouring can two... i'll burp if i wanta it is almost time for can #3. i wrote a little about can #2 on the thunder sandwich board. i'm swaying in my chair -- black dawn, roar of trucks across west grandview boulevard, & i'm drunk, & posting fucking poems for all the goddamn asshole world to see on my 48th birthday. |