I come home drunk and eat chicken.
It’s too late
for dinner but I eat dinner,
and in the
morning will be exhausted
by the circle
formula
of another poem
born from regret.
Boring.
Armando laughed
from the
upside down
bucket
at the pistol
hand
I pointed to my temple;
the
couple who ran the donut shop
in
Rainier Beach were beaten,
and
we raise money on the internet
for their big
black eyes.
Universally, I
want to drink drinks with you
and take you to the water
to grant you with
a new years resolution
of facing all
your fears.
On the leather
couch everyone
mocks everything,
it’s how we
defend each other,
loser gang of tiny
insects
looking for
a honey lake.
Has Utopia's King found honey lake yet? Has the piratic cannibal eaten his fists? Tell wire and electricity boy to brush his teeth; give a hug to the deep-voiced alien princess if she's not yet gone to make it big, and another round of soda water for Simchowitz's protege. I haven't smoked a cigarette in months dear but this little poem almost makes me miss that choking head-blurr feeling.
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