here I am ...

drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottleof wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages ofpoesyan old manmaddened for the flesh of young girls in thisdwindling twilightliver gonekidneys goingpancrea poopedtop-floor blood pressure

while all the fear of the wasted yearslaughs between my toesno woman will live with meno Florence Nightingale to watch the Johnny Carson show with

if I have a stroke I will lay here for sixdays, my three cats hungrily ripping the flesh from my elbows, wrists, head

the radio playing classical music ...

I promised myself never to write old man poems but this one's funny, you see, excusable, be-cause I've long gone past using myself and there's still more left
here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from the typer
pour another glass and insert
make love to the fresh new whiteness

maybe get lucky
again

first for me

later
for you.


Meu Natal com Charles