That unimaginable horror show your asshole becomes when you’re a homeless broken poet. I could write about that.
Asides
Because I’m a Martyr (get it?)
You were always a better fan than lover. That’s harsh to say and possibly untrue. Probably unfair. But I can’t revise it. So I’ll havta let it stand.
Only problem is where I havta go to let it stand.
My feet slip in the mud and I bang my head on a brick and a torrent of water rushes the blood away.
Straining on tippy toe gulping water and balancing that pole balancing that pole balance that pole.
I feel like Jesus!
I feel like Jesus, a sacrificial lamb, and a scapegoat
In one convenient one-use only pack
Custom-made to die for your sins.
bad news
For a brief instance I almost convinced myself I had reason to live. But even during that flare up I didn’t really, I wanted to. I did. I did. I dreamed. I hoped. I prayed. I am only reminded again that I don’t haven’t and won’t.
Oklahoma
Franklyn Monk is in Oklahoma.