“Do you think it’s the apocalypse?”
“You mean right this minute, or in general?”
I have never been asked this question
With such earnest,
From a sane, pragmatic individual.
Sane, in the sense he has made money.
Sane, in the sense he has children.
Sane, in the sense I trust him not to become incarcerated.
Is this pragmatic thinking?
You’re a writer
If you can put down the pen
Then pick it back up.
Is this art?
More like endless process.
You need experience for work.
You need work for experience.
It makes my spine hurt.
They told me to go to university
Or I will end up flipping burgers.
Now, burger flipping requires:
Five years working experience,
The completion of an unpaid internship.
We treat money like a human right,
Priced by hours in your life.
I’m a professional fine-dining measure for poison.
If sipping coffee, staining ink into bleached page was a paid gig.
I could don a powdered wig
And light cigarettes with burning Benjamin Franklins.
Working until 2 A.M.
Mopping a blood stained
Potato peeled floor.
To supplement my basement
Kitchen, I’m pinchin’:
3/8th’s of a plastic bear shaped bottle of honey.
I have the tea.
I have the coffee.
I have a tea bag that looks like metal tongs.
Made of bulbous, Iron-mesh bongs.