i stir my coffee with a Bic pen,
eat cookies for breakfast,
even though the sun is shining
through the kitchen window
and hitting the bananas
in a beautiful spotlight,
but i am a grownup
with nothing to lose,
and i am concentrating
on writing and editing
right now, so no time to peel
or pour granola into a bowl.
i am too scared to say
that i miss her,
so i'd rather knock on the door
of a tombstone,
and admit i am a simpleton
because it is better
to be better instead of bitter,
yet i don't mind to be either,
because life is life
and it can be short or long,
depending on how you look at it,
and probably depending on
a diet of cookies you eat for breakfast.
i ate 12 between yesterday and today,
so what does that say?
it's okay, i don't care;
i even found a hair in one,
but i assume it was mine,
because no one else is around,
unless it came from the Tollhouse factory worker,
in which case i still don't mind,
just as i don't care about raw chicken,
using spoons i used yesterday
or the day before that
as a matter of fact,
because i don't get sick often,
not physically at least, mentally maybe.
i keep this day going
by taking notes,
playing the guitar in a kitchen,
where i used to juggle knives,
die my hair in the bathtub
with purple Kool-Aid,
and continue loudly
toward to the horizon
in spite of probation
or love's retribution,
because tomorrow could be lame,
so I make today okay,
something worth writing.