in a basement bar
where once communists gathered
and now we read poems
or tell jokes about flight.
thank god for the whiskey
which I sneeze through my nose holes,
clearing out a year's worth of cocaine snot,
right before my name is called
to go on stage.
I read my shitty poems about lost love
and stolen music, minutes and muses borrowed,
holes burrowed in Manhattan,
then out of turn I am replaced and heaven knows
their Aunt Linda in jail sends emails from her iPhone 5.
what I say doesn't matter
to anyone but me and the universe,
but I kinda like doing it and saying
these words with vigor.