Some days I don’t feel like doing shit

not a goddamned thing
Some days it’s enough to just sit & listen to the Bum Nouveau
rant on the street behind my house
some days even that’s too much to handle
and I don’t feel like writing today
I’magoingtodo it whenever I damnwell feel like it
I’m exhausted
sleeping on a full head every night
and waking to carry it’s sloshing burden
makes a man question the strength of his neck & backbone,
stretch more, get the blood flowing, get up & get moving,
sure of the day that he’ll waste away anywhere he lands.

Sometimes I sleep & swear my sheets feel just like paper
I wake up and look for the microscopic cuts
I run my fingers over my arms, face, neck & wrists
I make the bed and run my fingertips across the sheets
& try to figure out
whether I’ve fooled myself again.

I can be lulled into submission
by a trombone and a lapsteel
like threads enhammocking my weary head
I think of all the faith I have in the world
I think of pictures of girls
looking like they really do
when the shape of their lip
ceases to be a subject of expression
& suddenly says everything that needs to be said
I think about boys with honest faces
& wonder what they look like
as a whole
as in
what only the honesty looks like
all by itself.