it’s not tom’s diner, but

the coffee tastes
like an old photograph
as the world spins slow
like a scratched forty-five
lost in the grooves
of a one-note song
where a paint-by-number moon
burns high sulfur kerosene
just to chase the sound
of weeds growing tall
while the clocks wind down

your clothes are in the dryer
but you wait two hours to
check & of course they’re
cold & damp & you hit it
for another cycle & so it goes
& you suddenly remember
nestled under covers but
it’s too lovely & maybe
your undies like your lover
won’t mind a morning spin

dear reader,
I don’t care
if you read
these words but

the demon
riding my back
whispers fuck you
every time I

scritchy-scrabble
the page &
so I write
lest some angel

shows up
to ruin the
whole damn affair
with insufferable joy

I said
one day
my poems
would be
taught in
colleges &
my prof
said yes
as examples
of what
doesn’t work:
hard truths
are hard,
damn it

god I miss cigarettes even
though they’re right there,
how the drag filled my lungs
& stained the callus on my fuck
you finger with sweet nicotine
but the callus is gone now:
I no longer grip pencils for hours
penning missives & my damn
index finger is tappingly numb

With Apologies to Richard Brautigan

I am sittting at the kitchen table,
drinking a mug of Earl Grey.

An ant is crawling
on the refrigerator handle.

I have to disturb him
so I can get some milk.

There’s a bowl of cornflakes
I want to eat.

With Apologies to Brautigan & Bukowski

At 3:15 a.m. a beer shit
smells like a marriage between
inspiration and desperation.

I had to clean my ass
in the shower before
I could write this down.

But before I did I looked
in the toilet and said
“Ahah! I made that!”