November Poem

When thirst is a kind of pleasure

in and of itself, that’s when you know you’re fucked

up. And when hunger pervades

you’ll know it’s time

to not give up. It’s around the temperature

in which water freezes, and you know

enough to realize that you’re mostly made

of the stuff, but the warmth of tequila and beer

keeps you going even though you know

the stories your mentor shared

would be more permanent if you weren’t incontinent.

The interior of this train

that I keep writing about is yellow,

even though I feel like it should be blue.

The former color is ambiguous

and doesn’t bring back any memories.

Just because I didn’t write the poem

doesn’t mean

that it

doesn’t exist.

Different shades of light

are (collectively)  a meaning.

I’ve never seen the new moon,

nor the full Luna in an untainted environment.

My view varies only slightly. In Ireland

I forgot about the sky,

perhaps because all the grass and flowers

were intoxicating.

I am amazed at my

own feebleness.


so I walk around

cities in poetic


I climb

through the trash

in my mind, but more

often than not

I am intoxicated

and so the words rot.

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