I got into my BMW and drove down to my bank to
pick up my American Express Gold Card.
I told the girl at the desk what I
wanted.
"you're Mr. Chinaski," she
said.
"yes, you want some
i.d.?"
"oh no, we know you. . ."
I slipped the card into my wallet
went back to parking
got into the BMW (paid for, straight
cash)
and decided to drive down to the liquor store
for a case of fine
wine.
on the way, I further decided to write a poem
about the whole thing: the BMW, the bank, the
Gold Card
just to piss-off the
critics
the writers
the readers
who much preferred the old poems about me
sleeping on park benches while
freezing and dying of cheap wine and
malnutrition.
this poem is for those who think that
a man can only be a creative
genius
at the very
edge
even though they never had the
guts to
try it.
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