7:38AM SUNDAY
ramble poem

wake up after two hours
surrounds: clothing, sours
papers, monks bad thought
to chicken scratch, monks
and poor typing derisouv

atrocious spelling butnot
on “atrocious” hit keys
poor typing, monk made after bad dreams
puppet pin turned on the right end

and made form internet memes
he’d say it superfluous

usless detail, ending us
no time time for capti’us

this is how I’d imagine myself
a wrapper, if I was made around a candy
bar fight ting “with on bells on”
always asking if they mean piercings

its past seven-3-8 but I still fear churches
past 73-eight but still have stomach lurches
past 7-hundred-38 but still Sunday
past 7:38 am but still no idea
if I’ll get any real work done
today

I had a new idea and typed
With more fingers, before
This it was four
But is started with two fingers

Like shots of tequila
And rhyming razor blades
Barefooted winter newyork walks
looking for tree shade
raising the kind-of question
as to if I a one who stalks

I miss friends from England
I miss friends from buffalo
I miss friends from Bulgaria
And I miss friends I’ll never have a chance to meet

This poem is lacking
The last I wrote like it was standing
The things I do for art
Are self destructive profit hackings

I wish I could reject my false icons
But an icon as false as that is likely
the one that told me too
it making a serious corporal case
of horror filled catch-22

I aim to enter the lexicon
Like heller was able to
At least that’s what I hope to
But I fear I’m lacking

this is how I’d imagine myself
a rapper, if I was made around a music
bar fight ting “with on bells on”
always asking if they mean ear-rings

its past seven-3-8 but I still fear churches
past 73-eight but still have stomach lurches
past 7-hundred-38 but still Sunday
its past 7:38 am but still no idea
if I’ll get any real work done
today

try to find a word in rhythm
besides the obvious one
false rhyme it to feeling
because its easier than finding one
but still not quite as lazy as
rhyming the word one-to-one
not once but twice
makes me question my own
av-a-rice
now that’s just cheating

I think my eyes are eating
Away at them-very-selves
But atleast in poet-trees
My inglês can be flexible
And even depart it self away
Till I reach 7-thiry-eight.
I don’t think I’ll get
Any real work done today.