Slouching in Bethlehem
How many times must a man fall down
before you call him a drunk?
The forehead drips: plink, plank,
plunk. I think, I thank, I thunk.
Every newborn bears a crown.
I am not what I am. Poet is Punk.
Getting deep in the shallow end
of the pool. Choices wake us and
we drown. “Your sister called, something
about your mother’s poodle needing braces.”
I float supine. Watch the sun unspool.
A life measured out in molecules.
Mouthfuls of empty air. The spaces
between faces. Like gaps between teeth.
Nothing left to do but not care. Asses
to asses, bust to bust. Show you a sneer
in a handful of lust. Joan Didion died
today. Or maybe it was last year.