its

days like today,
the days when i sit
and write letters to
st. peter.
asking him to make sure
he spells my name right.
and i laugh to myself
another joke
and i grab another bottle
of store-brand wine from the shelves
and over-draft my bank account until i'm
blue in the fucking face.
and i'll sit in parks
on benches
on grass
under trees
and on the tennis court
and smoke and think
and write until i'm drunk in the tips of my fingers
and the bottles lay unopened at my side.
the days like these when time slowly passes
and hours crawl by like disease
and swarm with the bees and the birdshit.
and it's a peaceful type of cynicism
the kind that brings my eyes to a close
the kind lets me sleep
and pray
and finally find rest.
and the sounds
of the first rain of the day;
and again i feel like drowning.
and again i feel like everything is falling apart.
and i can't stop the anchor from scraping the ocean floor
because i can't breathe.