i was puking in the morning
with the breeze of spring in my butt crack
the sneeze of failure filling my nose
and brain where the demons were still dancing

book pages no longer smelling like books
and bed sheets reminding one of used capes
from live performances of off-broadway musicals
that involve an aging shoplifter at a meat market

walt whitman didn't write about garbage and insects
bukowski would not often be caught in a rhyme
i lean tired over both, as if there will always be time
to write a better kind of poem, as if i'd even know them
when they appeared on this page