Another fuckwit drops into the dustbin

of history, just as we’re finishing our coffee.

Some of us are meant to burn out, is that

right? Like roman candles, across the night sky.

I want to go up like a tree, not a rocket,

I’d like to get drunk disgracefully

with a favorite niece, and grow old

among an amplitude of footnotes.

Pour another Pernod, Famous Poet, and

tell me again about the doomstruck literati,

those dropouts immortalized in ink—your

thirst, your secret greed: your mausoleum.

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