the . . .

another night at the machine—spent drinking and listening
to The Who . . .
  I guess this is alright, I guess this is what life is made of—
fuck it, what do I know?
I'm not ready to kiss the tide, I know that much,
but I'm not ready to swim along the shore . . .
not that it matters,
really,

I guess all that matters is that I stay dry enough
to turn from The Who to The Beatles, and then from
The Beatles to something newer
and fresher
  and filled with more spit.

something angry.

something to make me weep as I crack open
another beer.

another night on the machine, and this is all
I have?
fuck, I thought I'd be more beautiful by now,
or—at least—more than I appear to be . . .
  maybe this is just getting too personal—maybe they'll know
who I am . . .


not that it fucking matters.

now I think I'll put on The Doors
and try to remember—and recapture—that moment
when I first fell in love with Music . . .

I guess that's what this poem is about,
Music . . .
  not the cold bottle, or the cigarettes,
or anything else.


fuck . . .