Samuel Wagan Watson

lying on the floor
with its concrete and ammonia tongue
reading Charles Bukowski, ‘Living On Luck’
my split-level mind and its contradictory ghosts
at once condemning his ribald desires of flesh
and praising the simplified schematics of his Richard Nixon landscapes,

           I've placed a block of cheese on my doorstep
           and the ants are drawn to it,
           I have no couch to lie on and read
           thus, the ants attack my flesh
           and I reciprocate, squashing them between my fingers
           to produce a gasoline inspired perfume,
           the smell of victory

some guy is at it, upstairs, screaming at an accomplice
but between breaths he allows the other tenants movement
and loads a fresh tirade into the breach
under the smoggy glow of tube lighting
                                  frozen images of dogs playing poker
accommodating the warm reception
of a surprise attack
from within the whites of their eyes
                                 tambourines tied to their feet