this is not a poem

waking up late to reality
is sometimes harder
harder and harder

then a boner
u use to stroke
after great worlds
called dreams, called shots
in shadow hope, hopeless..

till the work week made u
forget about pleasure
short dresses, short span
life fuse

Until one stops caring
or cares less

it can be consuming
when dreams and reality
inner mix
on the de railed train
crumpled up map
in new towns

at some job

midgets, books, white haired grandma goatees,
empty complimentary coffee, Iranian college Kurds,
credit cards, babies, apartments, broken english, bright lights
lysol smelling bathrooms, Shakespeare, all the
authors, dostesky, poe, miller, mailer, fitzgerald,
Hemingway.. rimbaud….balzac…not to mention
.. forget it/…ginsburgers..
Faces, looks, smiles, pay checks.. tears..
writers, to many writers.
I hate reading.….
To many people, to many
thoughts
the ones with no
Names
are the
ones shelved in my mind


waking up
wanting to
to sleep again

this wasn't a poem

This poem Copyright 2001 Nicholas Morgan.

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