Happy Ever After
Sometimes Bukowski is
just too sad for me,
harping on death,
thinking about death
all the time, sitting and drinking
and angry growling
at the page,
Kerouac, too, with his death
and compassion and poor Gerard's
death so young and frail, and Joyce talking
of death writing about death death
death dublin and death and sadness,
sometimes I'm too sad for myself,
blank pages make me sad
and pages filled with text, thoughts,
any sad thing just stacked
like boxes in old gray warehouses
where people die and go to
die and waste their sad lives dying,
sometimes sadness and death
is all there s to write about,
every story ends with death
even the ones unwritten.
Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he'd rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia's old Skid Row.
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