imagining the death of my father

hopeless

the haunting
cries of the
frantic woman
on the other line

soon despair
will set in and
the inevitable
will arrive

ahead of schedule
of course

and i being the only
real asshole in the
room will try to
crack a joke

make up some
nonsense that at least
he didn't die on the
shitter or inside a
hooker

besides, aren't we
irish

shouldn't we have
alcohol on hand for
these occasions

i'll keep going until
they finally ask me
to leave

which is all i really
wanted for i never
really cared for the
fuck

simply wanted to be
seen in case the will
will be in question

nothing but disappointment

i often find myself
thinking of you

the kids
the husband
the god knows
what in your life
right now

part of me is happy
for you

for i know i would
have brought you
nothing but
disappointment

but part of me is sad

for i believe that
disappointment
would have come
years after some of
the greatest sex in
my life

i'm sure you can
imagine what part
of me that is

and as i lay here
tugging away another
boring day

i can't help but think
that little fucker was
probably right

my cynical soul

happiness seems fleeting at
best at times when i see the
devil in your eyes grasping
for a blackened heart that no
longer belongs to me

this bottle and i have
traveled a long way

all to end up here

the sweat, blood and endless
chances of disease

for this

no wonder the kids are stuck
inside in a virtual world

where happiness is a three
second come on in a chat room

where imaginary people give
other imaginary people an
imaginary life

while my cynical soul dances
to some drunk drummer with
a john lee hooker beat

and i'm convinced my prize
for this adventure will be a
cancer of some kind

hopefully untreatable

so i may die long before
anyone gets the chance to
not care

poem written while the president orders me to go shopping

sitting here struggling
for the right words
as i so often do

never quite sure what
words exist to succinctly
capture the hate and rage
the love and remorse the
despair and endless tortured
moments of desperation
that has become our
meaningless lives
here
in this town
this state
this country of misguided
fools

where the presidents
are treated like deities

where the monkeys
dancing while playing
the drums are immortalized

while the teachers go on strike
the homeless freeze to death
and the diseased stand in line
for their bright red X

i'm just cynical enough that
it all makes sense to me

but by no means does that
make it right or just

of course, this poem would
mean so much more if i had
the cash to splash a 30 second
commercial everywhere

sadly, all my silver spoons
were traded in so i could
keep the family land

just as the rich fucks always
wanted it to be