Watching a dead guy die

I spoke to a dead guy

and he said I’ve been waiting

for you for a while now

and I said how did you know

I’d be coming

and I flipped the page

and he said I didn’t

but I hoped

and then I watched

him die a second

time

*

When I was younger

I was convinced that

I didn’t understand poetry

and now that I’m older

and I scribble a few things

in a jagged fashion

so that the whole doesn’t

fall apart

and if it does

it falls into itself

like hands washing hands

I realize I understood poetry

better when I was younger

for I want to change things

but all I have is

this

and I don’t know

what that

means

*

No writer needs to drink or smoke

or resort to anything other than words

but the writing won’t be worth a damn,

which is self-evident because I’m sober

and I can only tell you that

the daylight hurts

and bakes the urine and vomit and scraps

that once held words

that were later mumbled from my mouth

like soggy bread

through the continued climax of a cigarette

that enlightened me to the fact

that I was not a writer

but I did make a good smoker

and that’s pretty close

because isn’t smoke that can rekindle

what a writer wants

to leave behind

in the end,

even if that means

igniting

the book

or

the writer –

whichever burns easiest