he was
an old pervert
that loved
ladies booze horses céline
and classical music.

not necessarily
in that order.

depending
on the day
depending
on the mood
depending
on the number
of glasses in
he was.

he was
a prickly old shit
by the time
he became
the greatest living poet.

it just got worse
from there.

yet he peeled back
the facade
by knocking back drinks
then spitting
into the eye of beauty.

and no one did it better.

the redhead
the artist
across the way
the post office
that worked him
near to death
the old truck
that kept him
away from her.

hank
would have been
one hundred
years old today.

so i am
playing debussy
while reading his works
it helps
to keep the emptiness
at bay
while wondering
what the world would be like
had he never taken
that first shaking breath
in germany
a century ago.

a lot more bleak
and a lot less daring.

without
the happy clack
of drunkenly struck
keys.

for an old pervert
that loved
ladies booze horses céline
and classical music,

not necessarily
in that order,

he sure could write
a fucking poem.