Once again the New Year approaches
and I am still a victim of homosexual depravity


The filthy little beasts of the zodiac
have trampled over us again,
and I alas am Misfortune's roadkill.

Gong hay fat choy,
Chinese New Year's 1996:
it's the Year of the Rat.

I stretch my tail and crawl
to the bathroom with a squeak,
past micro-brew empties, loaded

ashtrays and the crumpled
underwear of two snoring male
strangers asleep on the bed.

In the nuclear winter
of someone's North Beach
apartment I sit alone

in the kitchen, microwave
a cup of last year's coffee,
spark a doobie and enjoy

several stunning nuances
of intellectual radiance.
Another year and all my stupid

schemes have gotten me nowhere:
no money, no publisher, no lover,
no apartment, no nothing

I ought to know better,
I ought to stop drinking
and fucking around all night,

I ought to make something of myself
before Death breaks down the door
and slaps on the handcuffs forever

Outside drums and cymbals
and firecrackers crash and bang;
Chinese children

shout and laugh
while the lion dance
winds slowly down the street

Poetry sitemap             Next poem