I find “Hey can I write a poem in here?” “Always.” Anyways
The laundry’s boiled the egg’s on the pasta’s in the dryer
And there’s a hole in it. I’m halfway thru 4 books.
One’s depressing one’s redundant one’s old school and one’s
Eternal. Today’s flower is the laundered cinquefoil.
Sunday morning at the crepe place on California feeling nice
And beautiful. Moody. Believin’ in it. Last night
Happy Together and today coffeecake with Equi & Kyger.
Not because of his breath.
It was phantasy with a capital L. The alarm goes off I’m
Already stuffed and look the bowties are sticking while he’s
In the shower getting burned too. (“Do you think he said
Secret or Sacred?”) These self-aware words
Writing themselves over an organic panic attack
9am. Once around a glass of ice water into an Ativan.
Almonds make me feel like aluminum all year long.
