I couldn’t sleep because I was on an air mattress.
It was the Hilton of air mattri, though, believe me.
Three tiered, plastic stinking, air filled head board.
Sick, backache, roly-poly, misshapen neck. The smell that you catch a quick whiff of
the next day after you shower.
The all day, every day red eyes, dark circles, the uh-huh’s.
The rubber, doctor smell.
It makes my body do weird things and
I read that there’s something wrong with you,
if you have a metallic taste in your mouth.
My stomach was upset again. It could’ve been
from the lovely restaurant
that we ate at too late last night. Or,
the 12 hours of traveling, the phlegmy smell
of airplane, and too much perfume
on a woman much too close.
It could’ve been from my birthday dinner,
when I had at least eight shots of tequila, and
attacked my roommate.
That could surely make someone sick.
I want to throw up thinking about New York.
It makes me sad, and makes me want to cry,
because it’s there and it’s happening
and I’m not.
And also, everyone’s doing it.
Throwing up, I mean.
Sometimes I feel like
or 100% honestly
spooning my eyeballs out.
But the 8 of us at an expensive restaurant across from the MET.
One large, bald actor is screaming about
how Mika fucked their accommodations
and that they were in “Noburg” where the
only train was the G.
THE G TRAIN.
The G “that comes like Haley’s Comet.”
Sometimes I’m led to believe my own
lack of education and culture. We’re fake.
We’re all so fake.
you ever notice how trees know
what you’re feeling
better than you do?
Did you know that’s it’s 6:41? Right now.
Is there a time in heaven? heavan?
Or that you’d rather hear someone
with a speech impediment
read your work out loud,
than do it yourself?
Is being a hipster, the new
being a poet?
Poets hate poets, and they hate
poetry, and it’s so whatever.
And hipsters would rather be
incorrectly called Gothic
than Hipster. Still,
pen and paper is the heart and soul,
and riding a fixed gear is just good exercise.
And if I were to be honest, I still have no idea why poets break lines.
what’s the deal?
Is it art?
Is that a ridiculous question because everyone but me knows that it’s art?
Well, I’m art, and I’m licking the windows.
I’m really just trying to live in the now of 6:41.
Is the 6:41 in heaven the same as our 6:41?
Are we in the same timezone, or is everyone
in the same timezone as heaven?
So, I knew a girl in middle school
named Stefanie Heaven. Or Heavan.
Whichever way is not how you spell
where God lives. She
was suicidal and I had
to go to counseling because
she would call me talking
about wanting to kill herself.
She never did, and I
never knew why I was in counseling.
For the rest of my life
I would confuse
how to spell heaven.
Stop me if you don’t have the metallic
taste of irony in your mouth.
And speaking of irony,
Did you know that the actor
that played Henry V
named his son Henry?
This is Shakespeare’s legacy.
I mean, it’s romantic, but
he’ll have to teach little Henry
that you have to choose
whether you’re going to watch the movie
or read the subtitles. You just can’t do both.
Sometimes, I wonder if
my thoughts are getting fucked up
because of my Hilton bed, with it’s self-blowup, and
the impossible way it never wants you
to get out of it.
Or if the time is significant. Like,
because we’re poets, which I’m not, because fuck poets,
but that it’s romantic, or ironic that the time is never changing. I mean,
Happy 6:41 forever.