Gone are the days

when I laid in bed, and didn’t care about anything

but writing.

I used to drink one shot of espresso, after another

listening to the cars honk, in my 3-story apartment up above,

and the drivers


insane things

to one another.

I wrote some of them down—the creative lines

but mostly I heard, “Hey, mother fucker…you stole 20 seconds from my life—move your fuckin ass.” HONK.

Chuckling to myself,

during these brief interruptions,

I continued to type,

until 2 in the afternoon—


I am a suburban husband

who bought a house

and enjoys his government job.

I am admired by the few, and hated by the many, which feels good.

My wife believes in me, while I cut the grass on Sunday and wax my BMW.

Nolan just bought a brand-new Audi.

He tells me about its features…

“It’s got butt warmers in the seats, and automatic steering—I don’t even need to drive it.”

“But will it fuck you?” I asked.

“What kind of question is that?”

“I don’t know. I need to go fuck my wife.”

My neighbor is appalled at my language, but I was telling the truth (It’s what a good Christian does.)

Right when my routine was twisting the screws into my skull, and giving me thoughts of suicide

my best friend knocked on my door.

“Andy—I broke-up with my wife for two weeks—let’s go climb a mountain.”

He’s going bald now, but he still has an unnatural energy about him

that makes him exciting to be around.

When we got above the snow-line, I sat my ass on some ice

and started to write…

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Writing a poem.”

“What for?”

“Just because I got married, doesn’t mean my soul is dead.”

He looked disappointed—maybe, because he quit doing math when he got a corporate job.

He was hoping I would give up the foolishness from my past

but my insanity haunts me

like a ghost, like an imaginary friend

and I’m never going to kill that relationship


ghosts can’t be killed.

We had coffee, on our Bunsen burner, and summitted.

I thought about throwing him off, but he has his uses.

When I got home,

my three children

were there to greet me, laughing, and hugging me.

“It’s good to see you,” my wife said.

“Yes, let’s go fuck, and then I’ll write about it.”

“No, you won’t.”

Obviously, I don’t do what she says.


2 thoughts on “Obviously, I don’t do what she says…

  1. Shitter! Great poem! N answer to a quick thought! BIT AUTO-biograpeinghical in parts + car + 3rd floor flat! Being ambiguous BUT my other comments will help! Clue posted a post at 16:05 say got auto-post above! but 16:07! The God LOKI!? (NOrse) Look the f*cker up!

    Liked by 1 person

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