Monday, September 12, 2016


Morning, to-go
cups full
of brown, 
beige or virgin-white 
coffee clutched 
tight like new (and right
where those
old) stuffed 
animals (used to go)—passive-aggressively 
awake now, 

that's what 
we're going for.


Quitting time, dying like 
hell to cash-
out, to grab hold of what-
ever coins we can and 
explode like heretical 
scrolls full 
of incendiary common-sense 
knowledge from some blustery
infernal old monastery—still compulsively
smoking a little, but making it look

as if 
what we're going for.


At night, feels like even to sleep 
is to chance 
cheating, to risk being called-
out by Tomorrow
for attempting 
to sweep-in last
minute for the fast and 
cheap lottery 
ticket dream—so completely and so utterly
broke, although to be

what we're 
going for.