Sick

I remember, today
Charles Bukowski
and how he drawled
his life out, reading
memories, not just copied,
transferred; gone from inside,
like Burroughs two days after
the doctor started leaving his phone
off the hook

The static rap in my brain;
contrapuntal guts, empty;
desiring their emptiness;
bitching from old habit,
denying solace;
tendrils seem to reach,
invisible through my skin
hooked directly into
the rip and slap of thought;
confused and aggravated
by bright sun and tepid wind.

I'm a shell, then the nut
then the seed, then a flash
and a thump; this heartbeat
seems to move, sluggish
from chest to head to wrist;
checking for leaks? Or, just
trying to find a way out
which I have forgotten about?

Out the window, they run, drive
hurry by; it's like watching
old film in bad light;
or, a hangover with no satisfaction
of how it got like this from last night.

I am sick and tired, and sick and tired
of being sick and tired;
and the day moves me through
waves of hope, and cross-cut currents
of metabolic dross, and I just hold on
longing for darkness, and bed,
and patent-pill, and / or alcohol
induced respite;
and the backhandedjoy
found in every breath,
that I don't ever have to take tha one again
while feeling like this.

Yuck
~b