51st week of Poetry

October 16

 

Don Draper

Do I want to be like him or not?

I’m confused

 

October 17

 

A day in Tampa

can sometimes feel like

heaven or like hell or like

a day in the sauna with an

angry bulldog

ready to tear your fucking nuts off, and for no good

reason.

No reason at all.

Ten dollars

and you can get the world

Well, “the world” if it counts as a cream cheese bagel, burnt at the end,

with minimal cream cheese, and a large coffee that produces third degree burns.

It’s hard being bourgeois.

It’s hard surviving on Dominoes’ Pizza and Parmesan Bread Bites, at a low, low cost of twenty bucks or so.

 

(No, I’m not shilling.

But, I’m not against any corporate back scratching, am I right or am I right?)

 

Right.

 

October 18

 

Workshops

                        Don’t Like

                                                Centered

                          Poetry

I guess.

October 19

 

Endless fields of green

Endless lanes of cows

Endless vistas of traffic

Where is the sanctuary I was

hoping to find when this whole odyssey

started?

October 20

 

Saw an old friend

Sad to have missed him for so long

Happy to see him again

Sad to see him as always

Long nights of driving

Long days of sitting

Money always spent

But does that make you happy?

80 bucks for chicken wings and some

goddamn onion rings?

But then again, what do I know?

I’m just an asshole with a decent vocabulary

and a semi-formal-casual college-like

education

I’m just a guy

that pouts and whines and sulks and complains

And wastes time

Who else could wonder about the lack of time to work on projects

and to watch movies

when I’m sitting here

writing

about

nothing

Just fingerfucking with the keyboard, thinking about when to break a line or when not to break a line or when to keep going or why keep going when it’s been close to fifty fucking weeks of absolute bullshit and the fact of the matter is I’m tired of college and projects and virtual school and writing and magazine editing and it’s all the same thing year in year out so why should I try?

Why should I care?

I guess I’ve got nothing better to do than be a disgruntled motherfucker

A sad sack

A piece of shit

A sod or a twat

But a twat with ability to string together words

So I guess I can pay the bills

That way

I guess.

 

October 21

 

Ismael

It means Ishmael,

It is the number 42,

It is like the sodden-ed grass,

It is talking about Breaking Bad,

It is the memory of Hunter S. Thompson,

Who taught me Fear and Loathing,

When he savaged the powers that be with the written word,

My name is Ismael,

It means I’m full of shit.

 

October 22

 

The Wire

Finally started it

I guess I’m late.

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