For Oliver,

so happy birthday
the poets cry themselves to sleep
knowing that one more hit
and one more drink
will bring their next line
but the pennies stack
on the coffee table
and add up to a dollar and 27 cents.
only enough for coffee
and maybe a puff of cigarette smoke
maybe a headache
and a single out of tune piano key.
believe me.
every day the seer wakes up
and wishes he didn't
and everyday the listener wakes up
and is glad he does.
but the lonely man,
who raps his fingers
thrice on each side of his pant-legs
and rubs his upper gums
with the tip of his tongue,
lights a square in the shoddy lit alley
like a character in a movie he's seen
or will see.
his hands tired and mind wandering
shakes the dust from jeans
and sucks venom from wounds
to walk three blocks home
to a sleeping wife and cat
and he feels like a man
standing still in a piss puddle
dissapating, draining,
feigning free thought.
only wanting straight talk
from friends and family
and finding nothing but bones
and dust under his feet
but he can stand to be damaged
but damn it.
he can't help but hurt sometimes
when he slips his shoes off
at the end of the day.
he takes another slow drag
and figures, "fuck it,
i want beauty in every word,
and love in every dead star,
i need grace in pen,
and a place to lay my head
when i can't lift it."