that will become disheveled
through the long Wednesday,
I sip coffee, read the Times,
jot down notes, doodle in the margins
of a composition notebook,
and procrastinate the work at hand.
the indie soundtrack is too soft
to hear but too loud to ignore,
just like the morning,
which started at 5:45am
for some damn reason,
which I embraced,
but am now paying for.
just like Dada art,
writing about the ordinary mornings
that make up most of our lives
is more referential to real art and real life
than trumped up bullshit
about love and death,
am I right?
sure, miracles happen,
but most days are avocado toast
and internet doldrums,
work and whatnot, up and down,
over and over again, my legs itches,
which makes it all dastardly poetic,
especially in the movie of our lives.