Hotel Man

Is it possible some men write in hotel rooms
just across from the city's convention center
because...well, let's forget because. Ask
how can it be a poem? Is it a Westin?
Men like that deserve whatever they get
unless they get a lot, then we distrust them
even more, and take their poem, shove it
out the door, just past the new USA Today
laying on the floor like an abandoned baby.
Or is it a Marriott? Should we listen less?
Hate them more? What crawling brings
them thus, to this, lines short enough
to look like something should be maybe
said, but no, Whitman wasn't anything
like this, nor Eliot, too fragile for well,
a peach...And God bless Ginsberg
for life with a jetpack, self-engineered,
fast and high, zoom zooming by and by
and by, queer enough to shake all the old
forests dry. And a VP wants to squeak?
Eek! From a Hilton or a Hyatt? Jeez!
Well, it's just that I can't sleep. Worse,
yet, I distrust those cocky enough
to doze off at will, at work, at ease,
at anytime they please. You know
sometimes people want to yell at me,
but it is not a thing, with paychecks big
as mine, and travel like some sort
of soft prison time...haven't met a soul
in 20 years of tin cans packed with people.
We were all never meant to be together.
Alone, implode. With others, explode.
Or, all the other way arounds, right?
I'm just saying, just saying, 15th floor,
eat the news in vagabond hunger
until the truth tastes less like grease
and more like a tangerine picked
when the sun rose in colors laughing
for someone too shy to take it.
Brothers, sisters, preachers, sinners,
me multiplied by handguns, $100 bills,
mail-order scotch, golf legends, German
cars, Rilke, big-hipped women, yodeling
western-style, and a perfect black coffee.