monday’s blues
i walk with no rhythm
i think with no mind
my heart an adust landscape
of black bile bubbling out
of my mouth
oozing along the sidewalk
like a tar river
and i think,
“there, you son-of-a-bitch,”
there’s melancholy for you,”
in the most archaic and true
sense, of course,
that someone can be down
every time this motherfucking day
rolls around.
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