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It is three a.m.
and I am reading
Bukowski
writing about
Spain and bulls and Hemingway
and
outside on the boulevard
it is raining
like
pouring piss out of a boot
and
I pour myself another
cup of coffee
and
remember you,
and the shards of
your memory
slice me like
rusty razor blades
and
I bleed,
and
outside on the boulevard
it is raining
like
pouring piss out of a boot.
Pain is preferable
to that horrible gray sludge of medication
that clogs your brain
If the pain gets too bad
I'll just crawl off
into the desert
build myself a red rock cairn
beneath an aging Saguaro
and let the
sun bake me
and the wind
dry my flesh
and the vultures clean
me to the ivory bones
In those cool, sad, sweet hours
Of indigo silences
That come just before dawn
I lie still as my own corpse
Remembering with a torturous exactitude
The days that fell like broken dreams
Across the dark ghostly skies, while
Long absent memories arise
Like vultures in the hungry night.
Calling my name and whispering
Lamentations and final benedictions