THE DAY BEFORE I UNEXPECTEDLY DIE

 Everything is one big, fuckin' lie

and you know it 

because you have always lived it.

And then there are 

the constant worries

about the children 

besides the drinking 

and the drugs

and the financial concerns

and the failing health 

and a million other things.

Where is the peace?

There is no fuckin' peace!

It's all illusion and delusion

inevitably wrapped in death.

I look at my children

and I see death

staring at me in the face.

I could write a thousand other things

and hopefully I will,

unless death gets me first.

I could write

a series of short, dark poems

on this rainy day,

but I probably won't

because my nerves are shot

and I can't count on you

for some dirty sex now,

which would offer me 

a brief respite

from this pounding headache.

Should I take another Xanax?

The first one isn't working.

I'm not going 

mano-a-mano 

with you.

I'm venting.

It isn't personal. 

How does thinking about the deaths

of our children reflect on you?

I'm allowing 

the dead matter

in my head

to pour out 

of my mouth.

I can't be happy 

and optimistic

all the time.

Would you rather 

I text someone else?

Since you're not here to provide me

with a temporary refuge deep in your pussy,

I will take that other Xanax

and seek my escape through sleep.

I'm riding a wave.

I hope I don't drown.

I give thanks that I'm retired

and I can comfortably wrestle

with the devil in my bed

unless he pokes a hole 

in my inflatable mattress

with his horns or his tail.

Maybe I'll take all my texts

and write one long poem a la T.S. Eliot.

Only my commitment to art

can possibly lift me out of bed

as I lie here weighed down

with yet another hangover.

I think I have my long,

perhaps rather disjointed, poem.

Let me know if you're visiting 

in the afternoon, 

so I can take a Viagra.

Anticipating a good, hard fuck

gives me hope.

I want you to agree

to consensual rape

because the sex

will be that nasty.

I think the second Xanax is working.

I'm beginning to feel better.

New title:

The Day Before I Unexpectedly Committed Suicide.

Your suggestion is humorous:

The Day Before I Lost My Mind.

Based on your many years

of first-hand observation,

deleting "unexpectedly" has merit.

I've appreciated your insights

during our time together,

almost as much as 

I have appreciated 

ravishing your body.

Done.