This is my last new testament.
The cats go nuts in my room
and the most disgusting thing
is Maggie tracks mud
to my computer and back.
“A little massage in my phone is a
stunning work of sentenceography.”
I say this as I spill sugar
all over myself and my journal.
I hope I got some in the coffee.
When I woke up I thought of an
ulterior motive, gawked at who
was sitting at the window with a
Fonzie look, and then I imagined
I could be doing it in a big way.
Have you noticed that I don’t
write when I’m drunk anymore?
I have such a bad taste in my mouth
from last year.
If I die right now,
I guess I’d have to be
buried in Arkansas.
But I’d rather they just
put me on the street all burnt up.
