poetry is a stream of consciousness

November 20, 2013

He said success is not a straight
line. I crabwalk my way through the
dark alleys of the night littered with dirty
secrets each whispering, whimpering to
look this way, that way.

I could not make your party and I’m
sorry but the day had gotten so very long
and well, you know how my brain works,
don’t you?

The meeting was nice, a circle of us addicts
and me the youngest, telling my story in five
minutes or less and the people with their lips
pursed, not from objection but from a sort of
sympathy that only comes from those with the
worst inside of them.

I have not seen my therapist in three weeks. He
calls me every Tuesday and I tell him I cannot
come in, sorry, prior obligations. I am a flake.

A snowflake. A special fucking cupcake. I am
sugary sweet, so good to eat I am the demons in
the back of my head. The cats feel bad energy in
my bed and it comes from the back of my head.

Holy water, holy mother of god, holy ham sandwich
what would Bukowski do? Drink a few beers and then
a few more and be done with it. Hemingway would
wage a bet on a sturdy horse. Sylvia dances round in
circles stepping on her toes.

I cannot wake up in the morning anymore. I used to
enjoy the mornings but I am sleepy now and would
you please let me be? I am just sad and you cannot
fault a sad person, it’s just that our brains work too
quickly and I get overwhelmed.

Write a story about a house, a brownstone house in
Brooklyn where the tree lined streets are in close
proximity to Manhattan itself, oh what a fucking
day. I write poetry to stay awake.

Here’s to friendships which only ever partly end and
here’s to a job with a computer to write poetry and here’s
to skipping my therapy for worse things to do and here’s
to the meetings and the demons and the truth.

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