Poem at 58

seen enough

tired still

smoking drinking

heard enough

beauty’s interesting

everything else’s

not

 

We were men of means

the taxi man said 

Chris had never been to Katonah

he was right we were young

better than him

 

Jeannie was there years

before I got there gone

years after I left

 

In Copenhagen I drank and smoked a lot

nobody blamed anyone for anything

we were young and wouldn’t die for years

fucked and ate had friends that weren’t friends

no money everything was new and we didn’t give a shit 

after living five years in Manhattan and Brooklyn

now almost every minute there’s a problem

the phone dings the car beeps and no one

ever stops talking I wish they would stop

I know a painter

who’s traveling

for seven years

spending his Danish

crowns on cheap hostels

wandering around

keeping a journal

taking photos

Instagraming

then going back

to give lectures

I haven’t been

home for 17 years

I haven’t kept a journal

since I was a teenager

taken a photograph

since I was thirty

and I’ve never painted

thirty years

I'm at the wall

nothing's fun

any more

the last 

thing I 

wanted to 

be in 

Cascais

was awake