I'm not in my element any longer
I sit beside drunks who
have been nothing but
masquerades of men
So obsessed with their failures I've forgotten mine
And have made new
and better failures
to occupy my obliviousness
And so it reads like some tortured journal
A last entry before a final blow
My self demise is lead-heavy and worthless
Even now I can't but stop and wonder when I will
step into the street
and grip the
gutter
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem