For years I’ve survived on Over Drafts,
Which I do not worry o’er beer draughts.
The time of droughts, my children,
Is not yet nowhere near …
My own father, your grandfather, was not a noble savage,
a man given to culinary appetites, he sipped porridge noisily,
and sacked the marrow clean … out of the bone of chicken.
The first sign of a failing constitution, is when one,
grows long in the tooth-chronic, the dentist is a black tooth
magician, a practitioner of periodontics,
and all its saliva, and dirty tricks.
Long before I die (d), I kept up with my marvelous regimen,
always up by 3.33am, or if I had had too much to drink,
the night before, then, four forty four, five fifty five, six sixty six
loyal servant of an inner rhythm, not quiet minutiae
(the paragraph above is a trick at pastherapy, the last time 7 oh six)
It is at these strange hours, over left over draught,
as draught of wind blew outside, that I drafted,
the final drafts, of the rough drafts of poetry,
that you now read as Draft!
Later, at 5 or six am, I switch to C.N.N then
read the day’s paper, or sometimes just hover over there
over the day before poetry, drowning oneself in one’s words,
like drowning oneself … in an ocean one created …