I don’t

I look in the mirror

And see a big I don’t,

I don’t get to write slam poetry that goes something like, “MR. PRESIDENT! Mr. President I don’t see you hanging, Hanging by the neck from Ferguson streetlights with full fall plumage, I don’t see you dangling next to Nikes that would better the feet of an impoverished archetype instead of hanging there, next to you Mr. President, to perpetrate a street myth that the snitches lynch shoes to let cops know which doors to kick down. I don’t see you acknowledging the constitutional rights of drug dealers as you choke for life on air poisoned with history, cruel cruel history…”

 

I look in the mirror

And I see a big I don’t,

I don’t get to write about myself if I’m to be Eliot’s

Grail. My Dionysus has bent

Me, for his and her pleasure,

Lost in a pool of water

Waiting for Una to forgive Spenser,

How could I not fall for Eve.

I don’t know.

 

I look in the mirror

And I see a big I don’t,

I don’t get to write pastorals. Too much

Pent up sex criminal,

Too much throbbing city light,

And the wallpaper is peeling

And I can’t get it up

Cause the whiskey is still in my beard

And so is she.

 

I look in the mirror

And I see a big I don’t.

And if I do,

Then what the fuck am I looking at.

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