A bible, a dictionary, a book by Rimbaud,
some magazines on the floor,
bottles in the fridge and
a bottle in my hand.
I read what comes in the mail.
I trudge home from work
to my hot smelly apartment,
I listlessly paw my letters,
reading, tossing, ripping in half.
Am I drinking beer or diet Pepsi?
I can’t tell.
I drink what lands in my hand.
I’m playing with my typewriter now,
later I’ll play with my dick
or was that before …
or maybe it was my chess computer
I was trying to beat.
I’ve lost one hundred and fourteen times in a row
to that machine
and I haven’t tossed it against the wall yet.
What does it mean?
I can’t tell.
It’s one of the things I own,
one of my things.
I get nervous listening to the
landlady clomp around downstairs.
I know she hates me, and I hate her
too, but the rent’s too low to leave.
Once she yelled at me through the floor,
“Shut-up up there!”
and I froze, wondering what a real man
would do.
