sorrow, yes, it pulls at me
I don't know why .
avenues of despair slide into my ears.
the worms won't sing.
the Babe swings again
missing a 3-and-2 pitch
twisting around himself
leaning over his
whiskey gut.
cows give milk
dentists pull teeth
thermometers work.
I can sing the blues
it doesn't coast a dime and
when I lay down tonight
pull up the covers
there's the dark factor
there's the unknown factor
there's this manufactured
staggering
black
empty
space.
I got to hit out of here
pretty soon.
(Bukowski: batting slump)
