it’s been eleven years
and I still haven’t writtenthat poemabout yousleepingin an old wooden chair maybe tomorrow…
I cannot manage the issue at hand
my sheets are dampbut that chill is nothingcompared tothe specters of memoryand delusions grantedby the unintelligible desireI must cut this poem shortand close my eyesand try to sleepbefore grieftakes me over
When it hurts to breathe
it’s time to go to sleep.
In my dream I was lost
unable to tell one street from the nextinside from outthis place was not this placeI think I was myself, but who’s to know
Dull amber curtain
dissolve assalt into waterlet the currentenvelope youand just tryto keep yourhead above water
“Free-Write: Formulate a theory as to why “The seasons” was so popular, given what we know about 18th century England.
This is hard for me to do, seeing as how I neglected—chose to neglect—reading this poem. Things I decided to do instead of reading “The Seasons”: Drive home, make peppered tofu with peppers and onions, eat said tofu, watch The Master of Disguise, have sex, sleep, go to work, drive my friend to work, do […]
“Fire is dangerous” so…
I’ll keep my socks onin my bedtonightbecause it’s coldand gas is expensiveand there aretoo many housesfor us allto sleep together
Selfish thoughts
floating listlessly,meanderingthrough my mindpassing desiresunwarranted desiresto reclaimcertainty of meaninglessnessand the arrogancefound inorchestrated ostracizationI guess Isleep betterwith the comfort of knowingI’m an asshole
I just dropped my cigar box on my toe.
Everyone trying to sleep in this house might say:At least it wasn’t loud.I just saidow.
A piece of dirt remains in my bed,
along with the scent of the hair on your head.