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Day to Day Poetry # 50

Read one of Bukowski’s posthumous poems,
sing to Gronlandic Edit,
scroll through endless pictures on Deviantart,
lick dry lips,
pound down old, black coffee,
read one of Hemingway’s short stories
compiled in an anthology given by your best friend
using a dried, marijuana leaf for a bookmark,
sing to Oxford Comma,
remember the way the smooth curve of her back felt
underneath your fingers,
regret all the friendships you’ve lost,
write a crappy poem,
attempt to re-establish yourself
in an apathetic world,
remember the way he rambled about
our Type 0 civilization,
while you laid horizontally on his bed,
wondering when to go,
count the hours, minutes and seconds
of his return,
bearing the gift that will keep you awake
until 6 in the morning –
the one thing you’ve been waiting for
since you ran out
four days ago –
addiction is seeking comfort
from that which is destroying you –
because real life stopped doing it for you
a long time ago,
waiting endlessly for Godot,
how long can this clever, cover-up story
and day-to-day charade
keep going
before it catches up to you?

Hemingway said
that all it takes is one unnecessary word
in your narrative
to transform it
into an ego trip
rather than a
story.

6:49 PM.
Just enough time for another lit incense,
and a paragraph from Sartre,
before you offer your brain and creativity
as sacrifice,
just to feel
moderately
okay.

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