the man who spends most of his time crafting words
is a man who has never drank strange brown drinks
with a dirty large-breasted blond late into the night

this man is me, and that is my sadness, the eternal curse
of distilled vodka and brunettes, through short humid afternoons,
with an occasional small-breasted redhead

i should kill myself, but the uncertainty of it is shitty
like thinking while playing chess with a fat chick
she stares at me with deep wet brown eyes, smiling

the curtains of the world spread open for the night
and i'm mingling with the drunk giggling skirts
out here where the kids carry guns, for protection

it's the unlighted dumpsters that make bitches out of the middle class
like every saturday in college, when i would hold a crying head
on the bathroom floor and wonder why must we kill each other, with cheap liqueur

please understand, i never meant to be a comma in our conversation
i wanted to love you, and i wanted to take the thorns out of my ass
so i could love you, in comfort, without having to look for comfort or at my ass