I finish the crap I write
over coffee I can’t afford
in the mornings on
my days off from work
and I call it poetry.
Before the ice waters down
my Ethiopian cure
I can usually turn 3 or 4
workable pieces I find alright.
Nothing’s ever perfect and
I don’t strive for perfection anymore.
I just do as I do and that seems
good enough for now, besides
nobody reads poetry anymore unless
you’re dead or one of those Slam poets,
but that’s a pack I’d never run with—
the dead are fine but the Slam, no thank you—
since I’m no actor I haven’t the stomach.
I just know how I feel and put it down
whether or not it kills—HA!
If anybody actually cared what I had to say
I’d still be broke. I’d still be here,
no longer curious but still sincere,
breaking 8 balls and biting glass for reasons
only I can understand.
Walking home I no longer debate, I just
spit laughing blood and repeat,
waiting to be called back and told what to do.