But for Today, I'm Just Happy (That You're Not Here to See Me)

Ever get that feeling, like your life is being written by a mad, drunken, crotchety old poet
who, ranting against the world, prophesies your misfortunes with unnerving accuracy?

Me neither.

Yesterday
I went out
into the sun:
a rare thing for me;
long accustomed
to dimly lit
rooms
with peeling wallpaper
and
overflowing trashcans.

Passing by an old saloon,
a bum asked me for change
I gave him my last cigarette, instead
He looked at me with watery eyes
and muttered "fuck you"
tossing it back at me
disgusted, insulted
his wrinkled face
and crazy eyes
retreating now into the purple haze of memory.

smoking
coughing
i walk around town late at night
the policemen know me
by now
and ignore my carcass
while
the prostitutes on the corner
wait
for sunrise
tapping nails,
(chipped)
on lampposts,
(phallic)
scratching at moles on stretch-marked thighs
red lipstick smiles
smeared
across the face of night

back home, last friday,
a man he asked me
when cottage cheese
tasted better,
before
or
after,
the coming of Christ.
It depends
(i said)
on where your shadow falls
at sunset on a rainy day
but then again
one can never be sure
about these things
especially
if you've been drinking
the vinegary gray wine of despair
as long as i have.

the world went crazy
without me
and so i stayed sane
if only just to spite you
Or maybe
I'm
still lie-ing
in a meadow
by a river somewhere
watching
your reflection
as it slowly waxes
and sometimes wanes
within me.

before you go,
let me just say
how i always loved
the emptiness
inside you..

Tomorrow morning
I promise,
i'll bring you flowers
instead of
bad poetry.