Feel this: nothing between my shoulders and
thighs but my heart and nuts clamped in a vise
tied with a Gordian knot. Sweaty hands
hurtling small cassette’s forward and reverse
in eternal relay, hearing Leonard
Cohen over and over: Hey, that’s no
way to say goodbye…a caveman retard
impotent to tears, hunched on Avenue
of Americas’ curb, passion’s discard
numb to spring sun and blossoms. I didn’t
even want to drink. Just die. What’s so hard
about life: instinct. Its ape hand senses
and snags will’s last rung, refuses to let
go if we’re lucky, and won’t collect bets.
Roger Armbrust
September 5, 2009
