Stranded in Baltimore

Why go to a bar to write?

I have a flask of Jameson in the inside pocket of my woolen peacoat.

How do I pen a perfect sentence when I am at the Zoo with my soul mate?

What if I forget it?

What if a Republican becomes president?

Or I'm too gone to sign my name at the end-

the way it looks on the back of my credit cards.

When I start to rant, I’m not finished until I'm stopped by external controls.

It looks best that way

In the eternal memory of the cartae.

Like any artist with character,

My favorite works of my own will never be valued by anyone else.

How did we get here?

Oh,

That's right.

I'm alone, aren't I?

Perhaps I am too fickle

With my punctuation in a

God Damn free verse poem.

That is how I am, though.

So be it.

I won't even get published this way.

Art isn't meant to be raw anymore.

All the people want:

Sex, drugs, and idioms.

The only receivers of good art anymore

Are the critics.