What happened to me
is probably less interesting
than what’s happening to you,
pal. Shit, man, save some
pity for yourself. Sure, I got
a shot in the ass
infected with something
they can’t even name—you ever led the league
in the clap six seasons straight?
I’m dead to my old man,
deader than old Mutt is
even in the ground. He pulled lead
and zinc from the earth
and I hit baseballs farther
than any man on earth. We’re both
fucking astronauts, as far as I can see.
So keep teaching your kids
to mold their hats
like me, stuffed into coffee mugs
so the bills curve
like half pipes. I’m in Room 506 with half
the city’s liquor and half
the city’s wives. Three minutes with The Mick
can make you feel famous—
that’s what they say.
Like any dumb fucker
with muscles made of gold,
just call me Achilles
and be sure to aim low.
