Poetry

I will sit here. 
Drink another beer 
smoke another cigarette, 
alone.  And contemplate 
nothing. 
  
Meanwhile, 
Drunk Punk Mike stands on his corner 
with his white witch wife 
talking about 1977 
when 
people were alive. 
  
Larribe the hippie 
drinks mint tea in the Jewish Quarter of Tangier 
talking about Katherine Hepburn and The Rolling Stones. 
  
The whore in Singapore I got drunk with 
who admonished me for feeling so so sorry for myself 
still sits there with her teenage face 
talking of beautiful things. 
  
and 
  
I will become this bench 
punctured with splinter wounds, 
watch man descend into chaos 
hoping for the rise of woman 
with a Teak smile. 
Then decompose like stagnant driftwood.