the jackson fifty

i'm always searching for
that perfect word
pretending that i'm a writer
drumming away on keys
and dreaming of samantha
somewhere in spain

it's just another lazy saturday
i sit here on my bed
gazing out the window
listening to the birds
and the emergency vehicles
still half asleep
hung over and dehydrated
sickened by the sins
of last night's doing

all i can smell is gin and sex
and stale cigarettes

there are books scattered across the comforter
and records tiling the floorboards
like grandma's forgotten family quilt
i settle the needle on do re me a b c 1 2 3
michael jackson died only yesterday

and so did a piece of my childhood

i've certainly got all the necessary elements
to write
the heartbreak, the mental instability
the gin, the sex and the stale cigarettes

even the rolled-up fifty
that doesn't belong to me
on a snowy mirror
that i dare not look into
until at least noon

part of me is pulling the other part
towards a park
or an ice cream parlor
or wherever else normal people go
on a sunny saturday
their socks stuffed into birkenstocks
their imported lagers peeking up over the ice

at least i know who i am not
it's not yet noon
so i close my eyes
to do another line

the park will still be there tomorrow