as more than a sequence of words
but I get sick when I haven't sat to pound keys.
Something in my gut twists until circulation is lost
and purple parts inside turn blue, then black.
I shit dark organs in the morning
or maybe they're wine stains.
The coffee'ed commute
is more comforting than tired springs.
There's no one to impress by making the bed.
A gargoyle sighs and swoops down to Main Street.
I take out the gravity between nine walls
echoing only one voice
on lost souls who have none.
The aftertaste of mayonnaise
is permanent in my mouth
no matter how much I flush it
My Friends With Benefits
are all too sad to fuck
and I'd rather show restraint--
sinking in the Southern Mediterranean
a stone's throw away from shore
or maybe another sandbar.
See what I mean?
I can't write any more;
But the fact that I'm still here to fail
means the chance is alive:
As it has been.
As it is.
As it will be when they sell my guns
and dump ashes in the Hudson.