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

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


The Truest Sentence You Know

Image by biblioklept

There is something exciting about not knowing,
Not knowing has always
kept me going.

The slaughtering of stability
Is as self-fulfilling as
describing the electricity that binds me
to the blank, empty space
I decorate
with words.

I like to think
everyone goes through
the same anxious need
to create—

paintings, posters, poetry
and partners in crime.

The fragility of insanity
keeps me content, keeps me whole.
Madness that drives me
to unabashedly isolate
creatures of habit.

I never stop writing
until I feel complete;
I can never feel complete
unless I am writing.