Time is only moments, dripping
down the side of a martini glass
like the sap of a solo maraschino
and the sun sets straight at me
but I can’t tell if I’m burning
too bright like I usually do or—
if I’m talking about a character
fault. What if my every movement
is a symptom of some other
moment? Maybe I forgot
about the seat at the table
because I didn’t know I was invited.
There are things we can’t see
through, but I’m going to drink
until I can see through this glass,
navigate the foam on the rim
for meaning like tea leaves
or palms. Yes. I’ll do that and call
it “The Bukowski.” I’ll take more
and more men to bed until I sip
whiskey with one ice cube in just
a t-shirt and stay up until 4 am
and state the truth in such a simple
way that everyone begins to hate me.
I’ll always have more to say but take
breaks to fuck and smoke and drink
a cup of coffee with the newspaper.
I’ll never feel full, of food or anything,
except sometimes I’ll believe I’m
full of shit. No matter. Everyone will
know about it and more and more
people will hate me.