Game Three

I love
this
lovely awful town.
I love
this
pretty shitty city.
Yeah.
Who wouldn't
want to
be regaled
with alcoholism
and fossilized halitosis
by ghosts of idiots
while I try to Philip Marlowe
my way
through
another perfect disaster
and a Celtics loss?
Hey you.
Fuck you.
I'm not
riding
your goddamn bus
or
walking your
fucking
pathetic version
of a personal
Bataan death march.
No.
I'm here
climbing back into
the only thing
I have that's mine;
The Peloponnesian War,
The Big Sleep,
Time Out of Joint,
Dead Souls,
The Bell Jar,
The Guns of August,
Wonderland,
and
Richard III.


Piss off.


Pericles has left the building
with his smaller piece of stick
and ostracon pebbles.
Unfortunately,
he left me here
to entertain you
and...


since I cannot prove a lover
to entertain these
fair well-spoken days,
I am determined
to prove a villain
and hate the idle pleasures
of these days.


Ramp it down.
Steady on.
Leave it.
I'm not
in the mood
and
I
don't
care.


I don't care.


I don't care.


I don't care.