kiss me with your words
wake me with your hot coffee
I’ll drink it how you like
you know that about me
without ever seeing mine
drinking all that amount of wine
doing stupid things with you
winking at those who have no clue
what it means to wake up
wanting all you cannot have
so grabbing it in spurts
let the pain continue its hurt
I need to work on this and that
all I want is none of it
but you
doing what you said you would
knowing it’s all there is

in this winding, staircase mood
I’m in

she says, you’re like oil,
everything slides off of you,
but I know I’m not,
I let it stick
but I told her
the only way I can survive
is waking up to a brand new day
and starting over.
She said they should make
an SNL character on you
he agreed, laughing,
it would be a hit.
I didn’t know if I meant to say
that about the gerry curls
that got them both
in a whirl
but I think I like my version
better.
They’d only botch me up
into some free-spirited
bohemian, barefoot,
impulsive, redhead,
reading Neruda
as bedtime stories,
forgetting the trash,
and sleepy eyed
poems under my pillow,
wine-drinking, trash-reading,
…(I will stop this now)
And that is just no
Story at all.

I was going somewhere else with this poem, but as it goes, who knows where it’s headed now.

I might start
another book.

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