I’m sick of writing. Of the rhythm
and rhyme. It won’t stop and has
become an addiction like the whiskey
I pour down my throat even when I’m
not thirsty any longer. When bottle and pen

are dead I still trot out my fancy
song and dance routine. I’ll let the strong lines
parse for you, dear reader, if you will chance
my move from sport to bloodlust—even
when I’m sure I’ve run out of ink I’ll be
damned if my pen doesn’t find another red

Rorschach blot on this continually
despoiled page. Clean sheets are
a myth, the stains are real and no one
is ever leaving this place untainted.

We all live and die each day, every goddamn
ticking minute, in the hovering space
our very heartfelt words, these lies.



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