wearing the same blue jeans all week,
getting all tired (even now) while writing
copy during the day and poetry at night.
Woke up this morning,
not particularly inspired,
but then I was compelled to make things
and an hour in is when it hit.
I don't even notice
when the wave of mutilation tidals
into your heart, down your arms,
and into your spider arms.
Even a solipsistic animal like me
knows nothing matters
because all we are here to do is die,
so why not make things, make money, and try to smile because...
This poem will live a little longer
than my physical presence,
which just means my kid will get
a little more wiggle room out of my existence.
All artists just want to make things
that will help us live a little longer,
in the middle of the morning
of the big bad universe.