As I try to feel tired,
the bed speaks, wood on wood.
Add that to the list
of things to do on Monday.
At least my pants still fit (barely).
Some of those fat fatties
have really given up on life.
Them and the suicides.
Makeup and dancing.
And audience participation.
What’s that?! says the guy on stage.
(He puts his hand to his ear.)
I can’t hear you!
(Hand back to ear.)
OK, now the audience is excited,
now they’re getting into it.
My wife wakes up.
The movie’s about to start.
Now is a good time to buy a new wallet.
I pay 10¢/hr and it’s worth it.
No more expensive than to send a letter
and have its contents returned to you—;
the same recurring dream
has the rights to me for four more years.
It was a bad contract.
I await the night when my mind is free to wander,
free to stumble,
to somnambulate into midnight brambles,
into someone else’s psychic ash-heap.
A mound that his spirit spat out
onto the unconscious roadside
from the backseat of a winged limousine
as god drove him up to heaven.
Now I’ve come along and messed myself in it;
now I’m entangled in a stranger’s web,
for one night only,
and the tickets are going fast…
I’m naked at the wrong times,
trying to find a bathroom,
walking into the wrong one,
telling all the women they’re wrong,
and going to bed with the wrong ones—
but waking up with one that’s right.