A man is not a bottle (he won't break if you hit him too many times.)

It used to be
crossing my fingers
during the fourth quarter
drawing the ball
down the field on
invisible chains
of joy

Then it leaked out
onto the feeling
you get
when you see the
horses on the paddock
and yours is the one acting
mean and crazy, ears back
saying "fuck you!"
 to the other nags.
 And she wins...

now, it;s
 riding my bicycle
 with grimy colored
pieces of paper,
       old typewriter tracks
cursive blown out junkie veins
  crawling across the page.
I stop.
 Thumb tacks, rusty staples,
        lost dogs and quack diets
keep my shitty poems
        company.

The team chokes and loses
 The horse finally has enough
        of the game to kill her,
but I keep chugging along,
not knowing
       that no one gives a shit
 and the knocked out palooka
       is lying on the canvas
 still thinking he's being carried
          on joyous shoulders
 while he's down there, pissing in his
        showtime diaper
 looking up, up, at the shiny
        lights.