You’re getting closer.
First you took off your pants,
now they want your skin.
When you’re alone,
Comforts of cheap black coffee
On the floor of middle America
drunk on your interpretations
of each thing you’ve fucked.
Maybe you’re careless
with the blushings of your inner child, maybe you’re tired
of being your father’s phlegm-
You are still sitting on a broken bench
One breath away from quicksand.
It’s still you running home in your waiter’s uniform,
You’re still not thinking in synch
with the genitalia of your horny country.
In your backpack, is a poet’s life,
on top of it a heavy book filled
with reasons you were made for the breaking.
You’re getting closer….
You’re suicide letter soon to be a haiku.