Day Sixteen: ‘Emile 99’
April 16, 2013
What a goddamn wash, an atrocity
to view a man and say there’s a poem in there.
His wife has died. Cancer. The payment’s due
next Tuesday. The Polish kids two buildings down
keep stomping the bittersweets. The dog just sleeps.
Welcome your get in all its sloppy grace,
peaking 50 and still the search for color.
At least the drugs. No hair in the drain this morning.
Jot notes to remember trash Mondays and recipes
and never refuse an invitation. Drench
yes on all the sidewalks as your mark.
Life brimming with half-life —
the squelch and glow and afterglow and stain.
April Is The Cruellest Month 
[…] before him, pens busy tracing requiems in stale air, but wider. Brainier. Literate media and sad sacks in Park Slope who still can’t pry the gold bands from their mitts. Go there, chase the venom. I’m […]
[…] but no closer read for meaning. There’s a poem in there? I’ve typed those words before, too many times. Once is even a bit much, wouldn’t you say? Not like this is an MFA thing. Far from it. […]