it’s hard to write when
someones always watching you
i have fast internet
and a slow wit
thank god for this
word processor

remember when you were a virgin
the first line
like the first act
is always the hardest
fresh and too confused
to know who you are
does it get better
with practice,
age, maybe
on a sunny day

7am is the magic hour
with nothing but faded dreams
coffee and an empty belly
creativity and terror surround

windows are open, and
sitting next to this ashtray
full of cigarette butts
it’s quite possible
to plan the next revolution

but there’s too
many lines, words
unorganized and written
in haste and it’s never good enough

i feel like john nash or jerry fletcher
mapping chaos and
trying to make sense
of this random experience

the orgasm is in that one phrase
so inventive
that strikes at the heart
of your own personal truth
it’s almost time,and for me
the ending is always the best