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Each day I lose a little more sleep, for every night I spend alone.

The alarm wakes me in the morning, exhausted

and I hit snooze and I hit snooze and I hit snooze and

I remember everything; still waiting for a morning when the sunlight is enough.

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Not all the beggars
are broken. Most
of us just want to see
what you’re going
to do with that dollar.

I swear to god
it’s not for booze or bus
fare, I get my drinks
for free at the bar, but stay
dehydrated
because I dig the
way my voice cracks
when I try to rap
like Slug in the car.

You see a starving artist
and maybe have some thoughts
about artistic integrity. I think
that sucker kind of looks like me
trying hard to breathe, but getting in my own way

because fuck the lungs,
I need a full stomach
to breathe easy.

The time’s always changing this poetry
some, is delicious–
The rest ends up Tupperware in the freezer,
ends up molding with the compost.
It’s all fine by me. The only artists starving
are the ones without food.

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Still – attentive
to the rustling outside
these window screens.

To the spinning fan
shadows – more
up again late-night
remembering
more guttering LED vigil-making.

Gargling bubbles;
some caffeine
to jolt the brain, get that heart
beating a little bit; faster,
melt more syrup
against my tongue. Bite

my lips, but
relax the clenched jaw;
sloshing sugar
and blood
behind my teeth.

No sleep. Spit or swallow.

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Take stock of your situation
mainly the glow-in-the-dark
stars glued to the ceiling fan
plus the sheets thrown off
oh, and no pants.

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So here’s the deal with
kissing nuns. It’s fine, but you
can’t get into the habit.

-anonymous