If I wake tomorrow I will fall
Into town to walk quiet,
Gloomy streets, seeing
The strangers I will
Where is the rising sun?
When I wake tomorrow I will penetrate
The clouds to see it shine, pretending
I am in my French Vineyard
Where the workers pick grapes
For my nightly wine.
But, this morning, at the mirror,
I stare with bloody eyes, and
With cold hands feel past
Its smooth surface.
"What will you show me if I asked you?
Would you show me the places where
The hair will not grow? The sunken eyes or
The crooked nose? The heart
Like the astray upon the desk?
The urn filled with the relics
His arms wrap around his broad chest;
His stiff frame holds him erect;
He does not say a word or even guess.
The gray shadow of Death
Pursed upon his lips,
The pale white arms
Rusted from fingertips to shoulders,
And clenched teeth set in stone.
Where is the rising sun? What could I be if it had shown?
Light the candles, pour the wine;
Then a cigarette:
Shake the pack, open and close the lid,
Almost full but never enough.
Tomorrow I will give these to the homeless
Man that wanders the night here like
A staggering, sad Oedipus.
For an easy fuck because he’s
52, a virgin, and balding.
"Thanks, I didn't even haf ta ask!"
He'd say with a voice eternally drunk.
He'd talk about the girl that
Never returns his calls;
He'd talk about the first coming,
The second coming, winter's
Cold hallelujah, Christmas carols,
Gifts from the Lamb found
In trashcans along Lucky Avenue.
Sometimes I see him
Crying under the neon lights
Of townie bars or searching
For money among forgotten
Once he found a folded fifty
From Africa that he sold for ten,
But that's the best hand
He's been dealt in a while.
I see his soul with half-opened eyes,
For I am also waiting to die.
The days roll
From dawn to dusk,
From meal to food,
From prayers to words,
From speech to silence,
From music to noise.
The blank page is waiting.
The static of tomorrow is tapping
At the window.
But I am done with writing now.
The sunset is gone and I am afraid