after milosz

let us begin as this is so late
perhaps he could do nothing else
but maybe cook a little meth
make a still for corn liquor

who knows how his absent-mindedness
bugged the shit out of friends family and neighbors
could it be otherwise this foundling
without a foothold in this world

very well let us go visit the poet
at his job at the drive-in projection booth
cramped upon his broken plaid la-z-boy
scratching his verses on his knees

in summertime ink smudged in smoke
and sweat a bottle of bud on the table
and a novel by ed wood jr
used as a stop to keep the door open