Record Keeping

You are having trouble in the world

Because you want Sundays to mean waffles

And glass to mean truth

But you don’t realize

That tiny pink flowers

Mean tiny pink flowers

And their sweet yellow nectar

Is only sweet to you.


A felt tip pen has juice enough

To rend its insides out.

For me to spill my guts quick enough

For you to say, bitterly, enough,



Though this time I coughed brightly

Up all the shit you blew into the ceiling

I can’t promise that tomorrow

I’ll remember everything you said.


Because let’s face it, friend

Neither of us are much interested

In what the world looks like

Just what our insides feel like.


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