Gauguin
I tell you
it is rough being the poet
of petty bourgeois
middle class complaint.
Sensibilities based in
the ordinary.
Fetishes and obsessions
clinging to the prosaic
with no great success nor
abject failure.
Some practical good sense
always seemed to save me
and render life and poetry
to a solid B grade.
I need to drink and carouse,
do drugs and gamble my last dime,
and hang out meantime with the
wildest of wild women, but
I can't, so
I sit here waiting for
Gauguin
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