How Cold Can the Day Get?

How harsh can the wind blow?

If one
is helpless
on the ground
how many times
can he be kicked?

Booze bludgeons worries
and pain, only to
have pain
wake up, take a piss on you,
and fight your brother.

Fuck.
Just a few pumps,
to kill
a
few aches
and
make a few
more.

Cigarettes again,
to burn holes
in time alone
and good clothes
too.

How hard can
they make it
to even get
anywhere
and
who the fuck is
"they"?

A lot of my poems
were
are
written
drunk, stoned
sad, elated
fated, free
organic, synthetic
back to the wind,
or facing the east.

A lot of my poems
have been written
in ink, in pencil
in anger
in vain
for love
by myself
after Humanity's face
scowled at me
and frowned too.

I fear
every morning.

I write enough about it,
and no one reads.

A voice in the wilderness
yells for another
and hears
only the wind in the trees
and the cries
of a buzzard.