self-loathing
read my journal
and discovered that i am
redundant
that nothing ever
happens to me
except the passing
of another day.
wish i could sit in silence
with basho.
clean issa’s hut.
brooklyn is so
hot and weary
i am nothing
but a refrigerator
full of scotch
rotting iceberg lettuce
and an old box
of arm and hammer
lingering toward
the dying light
in the back.
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