the platitudes of willful resemblance

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.