words of a people aligned in their perfect order
and it is here
where I throw in the towel
that I’ve carried around with me for these many years.
no longer contributing but relegated now as guest.
to be honest, I couldn’t wait to be out
and now that I’ve written it out loud
we can finally know the truth.
– Hoc Scripsi
here we are at two in the morning
2.16 to be precise
and sleep is in the past and far from me now
I eat Reality Sandwiches
and drink coffee, black, out from a chipped mug
I seem to be the target of spam lately
and with this I admit to the digital age
fully with handheld computers
and online dictionaries and
the classic writers thesaurus
and I read Bartlett’s book of anecdotes
to substitute for any actual experience
which is a lie
though I sleep away in relative safety
next to a loaded revolver
MOLON LABE – out from my cold dead hands
and of course I speak of poetry
long looks and bedroom post-coital whispers
it is not enough that the sun should rise
in a few hours but that the moon is full
– Hoc Scripsi
slowly slowly
everything is working out
but slowly
I’m a big man getting smaller
but I’ll never be small
I was built for comfort
and post-coital embrace
but I corner well
been awake too damn long and I’m sick of it.
nothing to do with the cup of coffee I just poured myself in one of my Vincent mugs.
I suppose it isn’t that late but I am hungry and looking for my angry fix.
I haven’t been sleeping well.
and the windows have faces that I can’t comprehend.
I put on my goggles and peer out into the darkness of the backyard sitting next to my wife who is equally as perplexed as I am but today I did not forget my medications.
I still feel the world spin and note the stench of cigarettes and dying sunflowers.
better than earlier when I could scent out the unique putrefaction of several birds finding only one feather.
but the couch got moved.
generally enervated and bone pain sick of it.
half-banana moon, toothpicks on the highway, sick of it.
skin falling off and miswriting sin, a lack of croutons in soup, sick of it.
tattoos, assassinating public figures, the FBI comes and visits me at six am, sick of it.
or I am in stir, a padded room with nothing but this white computer and the insatiable need to sleep.
or I am in a wheat field with crows thinking about a .38 special.
or I am in bed, lying prone, ready to fire with a hard-on and magazine dreams.
add a new category.
eleven: forty-six pm – my eye lids are heavy and I am over tired.
goodnight.
goodnight.
goodnight.
