I'm no one,
just an Instagram, a blog,
and a past...
Nothing worth reading or remembering.
There was a time
when writing books was cool;
now it just annoys people at parties.
I pick my nose
and literally wait for the kettle to boil;
no metaphor here.
I am no one in a kitchen,
just Orlando Magic pajama pants
and a Coyote Blood t-shirt.
Maybe I'll even
take a break
from poetry.
No booze, no blues, no vomit mornings,
still a little less than full
where carrier pigeons catch us.
This December
will be
the December.
I am no one in a living room,
barely breathing,
unable to call this corner, life.
Is it normal
to one day feel badass
and the next feel like a scared sack of shit?
My typewriter
used to say I was alive,
but now it just does this copy-and-paste job.
Where do you sleep best?