There are thousands of him in this world.
Complaining clones --
unable to catch a break.
They all hate to work;
they all have sons;
they're all divorced.
Beer consumed by the gallon and
bellies bursting with liver failure.
Garbage day is a weekly crisis and
none of their wrecks are gone.
They tell me I'm failing.
I'll be one of them some day.

I drink my coffee with the sun sets and
eat my lamb.
I never could chew it fast enough.
When my plate is empty, I'll lay in bed
with caffeinated insomnia and
plan like NASA.

There are thousands of him in this world.
They all fuck two donkeys and
tell me to pick out mine.

At midnight the walls look different and
my stomach wails, newborn.
My skin shakes like snake’s rattle;
my lungs fill with the fresh scent of clean sheets and
the dust of the past week’s slow death.

Sunday is the start of a new week
when all my grey cells go green.

Every dawn begins
with eggs and
coffee.
Two spoonfuls of sugar, two of milk.
Cream is too heavy and
if I can’t jump,
I won’t stumble past noon’s speed bump.