like flies they come

come home,
under my thumb
on repeat
by the rolling stones,
heineken,
and the cigarettes are rolled,
and their are green leaves to be smoked.
the full moon's waiting.

some things are better not to be said, I think.
when you're looking at then moon
feeling no less awful then say-
half a million people
around the world,
you say fuck it,
it's better not to suffer
in silence

I'm going to
take another drink,
and when the nights are bad,
I'll do it again.

the nights are wild
like this,
but I somehow find
magic in small places,
and if you understood how good it felt
then maybe
you would try it too.

but they wonder if I'm
trying to write.
what they don't understand
is that this is an automatic thing,
like sitting upon the ivory
throne
and letting it all go.

what they don't understand
is that when I'm done with a poem,
I finish it and move on
to the next.
It's always the next.

I don't edit,
and sometimes
say nothing at all,
but drink and look into
the senseless moon
and wait.