Late November

It’s November
Fall is getting ready to concede the stage to winter
and death is sharpening its knife.

It’s late November,
darkness covers the street by five PM,
broke umbrellas are in every street corner,
and an ugly pigeon is a eating flesh of a dead squirrel.

It’s the eleventh month of the year,
and the wind is no longer the gentle breeze,
that brings the lavender smell of your hair to me,
it cut my face and howls when I cry.

Blood is dripping from read leaves,
Ginkgoes are wrapping up their last performance for the year,
and how mesmerizing you are in your black dress.

Naked branches are the fingers reaching to the empty sky
for the last drops of liquid gold before they switch to white powder,
and I watch their trembling weakness.

Streets are filled with
locked hands,
broken hearts,
searching eyes,
heartless bastards,
drunks who pissed themselves,
and shivering underpaid prostitutes.

It’s my birthday month,
and It’s too cold to smoke a cigarette,
and your mouth tastes like hate,
and you smell of day old anger,
and dogs are drinking from old boots,
and there’s a deadman masturbating to my name.

It’s late November,
and the sun is weak,
and shadow drinks the aged red wine dripping from my lips,
and god is a drunk man
with food crumbs on his beard
and cigarette stains on his fingers,
mumbling the summer months under his breath.

Heads are buried in the scarves and jacket collars,
No one is looking you in the eyes,
Words are leaving my mouth and
and Bukowski is throwing up in the bathroom.

I read my poems to a crowd last night
and thought about you,
I always do.