Dumb Poet

This kid I know,
Dumb waiter at some colossal italian restaurant,
he’s go this whole universe in front of him,
he’s standing on the edge of a deep, sad crater,
a bottle in his left hand, a pen in his right,
writing some piece of shit poems,
he finds the time,
a crazy worthless nobody.
Checks away the slack from his dress pants,
stands tall and sad looking out at
consumers from the bottom of a wine glass,
he drinks,
long,
red,
deep,
he drinks it away.
he gets dizzy and the world around him
slows enough so that he can feel the
spinning of the earth,
One thousand and forty miles fast, hurling
toward nothing,
he’s one thousand and forty-one miles fast leaning
for a rock,
balance on the edge of a sad crater,
waiting to fall into the center of it all

where maybe he can get the spinning to increase to a gyroscope.
There, balanced on the tip of a white-hot pin,
he’ll get what it’s all for,

and the world will still not know.