and sometimes i assume the character
i smoke, i drink, i curse the heavens
as i pace back and forth before this old typewriter
like a black cat, ice clinking in my whiskey glass
i listen to jazz, i light a candle
i stare out the window at the sonic moon
i clear my throat, i crumple papers
i throw crumpled papers into a wastebasket
i spit into the wastebasket
i bite the tip of my glasses
i talk to myself and i say to myself
what are you doing with your time, man?
tossing papers into wastebaskets?
pretending to be this outdated caricature?
come on.
it’s time to grow up, man.
i worry about you, man.
i’m losing sight of you.
and then i say
i’m still here.
i am still here,
and i pull the papers from the wastebasket
and i cut up the words
i put my glasses back on
i clear my throat
i close the blinds from the moon
i blow out the candle
i turn off the jazz and listen to my fingertips
i put down the whiskey
and i thank the heavens
that i have returned
the prodigal son of poetry
and those cut up words shine like grace
they shine like dust in sunlight
brighter than a hangover
holier than television
i realize
i have returned
to take this fraudulent hipster me by the neck
and strangle it with my giant hands
until its last false breath vanishes
and the words are there
and everything is illuminated
and then it’s over

and when it’s over
i sleep a deep sleep
for one thousand years
in the honesty of my bed


Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

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