Look at that: I was right
twelve forty-eight and you’re up there on floor
nine with your sixteenth cup and your
thirty-second memory migraine this week
hey: your call.

Let me put it this way:
the world’s already fucked
a little more screwing can’t hurt
any more than the memories of
three
straightsleeplessnights
spent sitting on the sidewalk
throwing rocks into the storm drain
(this one’s for my conscience…
god, where’s my drink?)

and in the morning
you’re a suit
and nothing’s wrong

in the afternoon you arrive home
lunch uneaten and tie askew
and you let your head
s (s is for strong)
i (i is for independent)
n (n is for never-fearing)
k (k is for knowledgeable)
into your hands.
maybe life is a synonym for shit
or an antonym for thought
or a who-the-hell-cares-onym for
something more than the beat-down
apartment on fifth
11/24/2007

Note: This poem was originally written with indentation. WordPress can’t render the spacing, so I recommend you read this poem with its indentation intact at DeviantArt.
harvey, 1997 at DeviantArt