The lost friendships turned into fucking zombies,
all That potential wasted,
the lost manuscripts,
the formerly satisfying typewriter keys,
the young wannabe poets now professor-like
the cats in the wannabe alleys-
squirming in plastic bags
the midnight hour - awaiting.
But I just want for my lunches to be frank o'hara perfect,
barriers broken down
moments tackled with aplomb
, potential grunge apartment suicides surmounted,
responsible for once,
and not just for latent disaster.
into a potent little poem
into a potent little text,
, as the apocalypse,
the end of the fucking world if you will,
glides casually by our nostrils.