i waste away my days w/long words
and epitaphs of indecision,
tracing memory along lines
in my aging face,
masturbating through Sunday mornings,
longing for the print edition of Los Angeles Times,
and endless cups of coffee topped w/fat
splashes of cheap bourbon.
gray clouds gather over my little house,
a slight chill lingers upon my skin.
i am caressed w/the wet kiss of fall.
my bed is made and i sit on the edge,
dressed and ready for a day,
one that will only bring me back
to a restless slumber, one more day
where nothing ventured