i woke up this morning
painting a painting,
put the colors in it,
gave it detail,
and so it was.
minor moves in maelstrom.
then i called it my own
and asked for a museum,
a place for it to
be put up in,
a place for it to call home.
eye of the storm, so settle in.
and then i woke up again.
and then i found my painting.
and then i found my museum.
to the leeward we form.
looking at the mirror
even with tired eyes.
thank you for this day.
i woke up this morning
i love bacon on foggy sundays
talking about past “friends”
reliving vivisection nightmares
and discussing English language.
of course, in a room full of
nametags and coffee and questions;
we are all teachers together,
except i hold my head
and wait for my lenses to change colors.
of course, came in late
and i don’t believe in
your political beliefs
too busy haggling with customer service
finding use where their is none.
she rubbed her inner thighs.
the sun was out though.
telling people what i think-thought-theory
is a litmus test for your sanity;
without commanding a sharp group
and/or their thoughts simultaneously.
the clock didn’t have numbers.
touch fingertips when you’ve found a partner.
would rather tell google to play
“hold on for one more day”
than subscribe to what is
imagined outside of the bubble; i can see too.
i will eat the whole pig and its face too.
i really don’t care when it comes to food.
a survivalist eats it cold.
Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets Walker Texas Ranger.
and i love sundays and bacon
and waking up not from surgery
or extremely hung-over and broke
and having my wife and son
right here next to me.
i like getting paid.
i didn’t waste last night at a bar
trying to tell my “friends”
i believed in what they thought
so they could like me again
when i don’t.
would rather make enough money to sleep on,
would rather. and you can
find me with bacon and without.
you can find me smiling, ready.
on Saturdays i can usually
drink a whole pot of coffee, not just half
so it sits until the next day and maybe
goes into a growler in the fridge.
my stepfather says it’s a waste to make less
than a full pot of coffee, so today i feel
accomplished and un-wasteful. on the way
to write this i played with the stinky cat
with a painful foot that possesses an ingrown
toenail on the big toe and has athletes
foot unrestricted. i turned on the kitchen
light and opened the shades and perused
the backlot as i filled the pot with tap water.
my wife changed a dirty diaper and prepared
for work. i cleared my mind for getting my
ID updated and a new credit card;
i would have to change accounts. i poured what
was left of the old coffee from yesterday
into a tall glass, added creamer and drank.
thought about how i won’t buy beer this weekend
and how our podcast went so well. it’s things like these
that matter, keep the full pot full, positive.
my stepdad was right, and then she walked in
to ask what i was doing in here, listening
to funky soul on Google Home and writing.
waiting for the full pot of coffee to be done.
as any uniquely flawed machine
i am toilet seat left up,
i am words that sour like trash,
i am defined by my malfunctions.
every day another anything to make.
and it’s still my greasy buttons
and bent wires that cross wrongly
which make those things happen
the way how they so exactly do…
uniquely flawed machine am i,
that does not a good human being make,
but one that only does and tells.
but one that i am sure you can relate.
the creation of blood & flesh;
how it feels to be a new god.
wake up to routine,
OK Google, play morning jazz.
watch people kiss at the
drop off spot.
it’s cold, there is ice–messages, go outside…
tie shoes and salt the walk.
change diapees of all sorts.
my son makes more art
than the lot in the books
than the lot on the poster
than the lot at the press
than me, and yes, i wrote that
and it’s exclusive to your publication
and i won’t send it
to anyone else, i promise.
no more surprises.
she asks me why i don’t wear
a jacket in 9 degree weather
to fill up the gas tank
so the fuel line doesn’t freeze overnight,
i don’t want to be restricted.
i want to not be cramped.
i just want to make ends meet
even if they have no interest
in meeting and becoming friends
and they just try to avoid
that moment, which i have set out so boldly
to make a reality, on my account.
wake up to routine,
OK Google, bring me a beer.
and deconstruct structure–
wood, screws, metal, shelves, etc.
they tell me i look nice in a blazer.
into packs cramped.
trying to be more free as i freeze
if you would just let me,
it only takes habit and a moment.
i guess it’s really just regular prose
and words and pictures scrawled from pen,
something so familiar anyone can do it;
an email a doodle on a notepad and then
put on white paper easy font some poetry
use your smartphone to capture the art
put it out to the world as if a superstar composed it
as if they were the best ever, sure they probably
know some publishers, probably slick in the biz,
that is the wonderful and talented rupi kaur too
but far more she creates and creates and creates,
words and ideas that come close to home
so familiar to those scrolling, tweeting
and sharing social media professionals,
because it was geared towards them,
it is designed for them like cat food is for cats
because there is market for inspiration:
to change the most of days and our acute minds.
my words involve coffee and hard sentences
chocolate–very dark, if i get very lucky,
and prose that no one knows, literary landscapes–
as if a hydrogen bomb went off on some shakespeare,
blew away the good art, took away the drawing,
and the respected namesake and time,
left a placeholder we did not understand
asking for donations to create breast milk
vonnegut, harrison, bukowski, niebeling, melville
and diapers, because that is how trendy one is
and lower case and lack of punctuation and.
everyone else can do it too, we can relate.
the year 2017, wow, is going to be 365 new ones,
with bubbles, pink shrimp and bloody Rib-eye.
Less of a killer hangover for new dads,
more time to think on things that happen.
Watching church shows: Joel Osteen,
for his positive message: no god, no. Imagine.
probably atrocities, probably anomalies;
probably complaints—and still, who cares?
Sunday, January 1, 2017… no 6 anymore.
Don Lemon’s pierced ear, tequila shots
and a fake wall built on the Washington Ave bridge;
like the Titanic museum in Belfast, UK,
the building is shaped like an iceberg;
where contradictions lie in wait and wait.
A coffee cup of coffee, within it false creamer.
Ersatz-politics adumbrate plastic news, woo.
All for salubrious sorts and their goodly peers.
Have a great time, everyone, welcome to day one.