i do it to myself
the world shits on me
i don’t exist
and i sit and read
bukowski and nod
or friedrich rambles
in his mad way
doing nothing except
confirming the feelings
i went to read and
try to forget about
for a few moments
but then i am pissed
hank snaps and fucking
camus rambles and
i understand sylvia
killed herself before
she too became another
bitter madman screaming
on the couch alone as
everything crumbles down
around me and goddamn
if i don’t have a sudden
need for a cigarette
and a fifth of whiskey
my insides are crawling
with fireants of anxiety
my mouth tastes like
batteries and coffee as
thunder pounds behind
my tired eyes as i read
one more poem or three
tryingtryingtrying not
to let the thoughts unfurl
in the inchoate breeze
and launch me headfirst
into the last thing i need
knowing if i go lay down
the blankets will strangle
me as i spin in place
with nothing to stop the
things i cannot face
glaring at me judgmentally
knowing my words sit unread
and only the silence rushes
to fill the chasm of icy
lightning arcing through
my ill beating fucking heart

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