Slow Night Poem
The moths of Chernobyl beat off
their wings
all over my window screen
candlewick whittled away
to nothing –
it has been a slow night
as such things go,
a familiar pattern, of late:
write too little
drink too much
puke over the porcelain
with legs crossed…
the dream has become a crooked neck
squash,
butterknife courage spread out
into soft oblivion,
I wash out my mouth
throw water on my face
stumble downstairs
(careful to hold
the railing).
Then I prepare some boxed pizza minis
in the oven.
Watch the Muay Thai matches
from Thailand.
125 lbs killers
kicking the shit out
of each other
with headdress
loin cloth
a rice bowl
to the
winner.