just short of rendering an illusion

i only drank two and half beers
last night
i got a stationary
ten hours sleep
and when i awoke
i quickly slapped on some clothes
my cats ignored me
and my stomach was empty and frustrated

i went outside
like i do most days
to read bukowsi
or some other poetic injustice
while consuming my morning
coffee and cigarette
but today
the ritual was cold and hard
my nerves were still
and something was
there was no solace
or creation here
even now i can barely type this
my mind is only half connected,
and my fingers are stumbling over the keys
like a child
trying to shoot
a .50 cal desert eagle

the world is old now
form is truth neglected
star pens and copper creativity
should have been the dream
but sometimes harder living
is easier



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