Monday, March 25, 2013

december poem, in february

no shallow end,
no lifeline

this is not an explanation,
you see,
this is my grandfather’s suicide

this is a letter to the fucker who
tried to get me fired twenty
years ago because i was sleeping
                           with his girlfriend

we grow up
and then we grow old

the wars don’t matter as long as
we can still afford to get drunk

this is a truth i
never see printed in the papers

this is blood in the
bathroom sink at 2:00 a.m.

i think about who i might
call, then end up just
going back to bed

in the morning,
the basement has flooded

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