It's almost 6am now thursday morning
the sun has risen & spillt all its light in my windows.
I could tell you the temperature.
It's hot. It's cold. I'm lying
My words belong to spite
& I say them with pride. because I have to.
I write them.
My head is full of glossy newspaper advertisements & throw away
My head is full of adventure
and the future, the next chapter in the plot
(my head is full of plots).
My head is full of thoughts about my friends & family.
They will not be trivialized by novels
the story does not exist to cover the wonderful madness
of my loved ones.
Nothing I say is true anymore.
Something I said has truth
I feel the decay
in my words & it saddens me.
I want to carve these words into a brick:
I feel like an old man.
Everyday it feels like I get older.
I have no fear of death.
I've felt cosmic vibrations while eating fruit loops
. I've smoked a bug.
, I repeat,
I've smoked a bug.
Take that, tom mooney
Take that, allen ginsberg
I will not drink your tea, take india
away from me.
I hate yoga. I practice every day.
Both of these things are false.
I have floundered
around too long, far too long, in this silly place.
I am losing
, & I hate it.
I am a little boy.
I think I will take my ball, & go home