sitting here watching the second hand on the TIMEX go
           around and
around . . .
this will hardly be a night to remember
sitting here searching for blackheads on the back of my neck
as other men enter the sheets with dolls of flame
I look into myself and find perfect emptiness.
I am out of cigarettes and don’t even have a gun to point.
this writer’s block is my only possession.
the second hand on the TIMEX still goes around and
around . . .
I always wanted to be a writer
now I’m one who can’t.

might as well go downstairs and watch late night tv with the
           wife
she’ll ask me how it went
I’ll wave a hand nonchalantly
settle down next to her
and watch the glass people fail
as I have failed.

I’m going to walk down the stairway now

what a sight:

an empty man being careful not to trip and bang his empty
head.