Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit

 

poems like gunslingers

sit around and

shoot holes in my windows

chew on my toilet paper

read the race results

take the phone off the

hook.

 

 

poems like gunslingers

ask me

what the hell my game is,

and

would I like to

shoot it out?

 

 

take it easy, I say,

the race is not to

the swift.

 

 

the poem sitting at the

south end of the couch

draws

says

balls off for that

one!

 

 

take it easy, pardner, I

have plans for

you.

 

 

plans, huh? what

plans?

 

 

The New Yorker
,

pard.

he puts his iron

away.

 

 

the poem sitting in the

chair near the door

stretches

looks at me:

you know, fat boy, you

been pretty lazy

lately.

 

 

fuck off

I say

who’s running this

game?

 

 

we’re running this

game

say all the

gunslingers

drawing iron:

get

with it!

 

 

so

here you

are:

 

 

this poem

was the one

who was sitting

on top of the

refrigerator

flipping

beercaps.

 

 

and now

I’ve got him

out of the way

and all the others

are sitting around pointing

their weapons at me and

saying:

 

 

I’m next, I’m next, I’m

next!

 

 

I suppose that when

I die

the leftovers

will jump some other

poor

son of a bitch.