Gone are the days
when I laid in bed, and didn’t care about anything
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
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.”
“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…”
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!
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Thanks for the read, ajpb11!!!