| Who was it back there in the cross walk
some hipster runoff kid we probably know
sucks to see familiar faces
in every bar, at every party
just gets so tiring, y’know
specially the ones I don’t talk to
I mean, when you see them you sorta feel
obligated to say something
but they’re just generic indie kids
probably fucked up
they probably get fucked up every night
like every other generic hipster kid you see
sun’s starting to come up
I’m sitting in the living room, on the broken couch
feet propped on the coffee table
next go the cup I’ve been ashing in
and all the shit from my pockets
room’s black – just the light on the TV glowing
shades are drawn so the window is this
gray-purple-blue screen on the wall
Ollie passed out on the floor
Sam asleep next to me
peaceful except for the a/c rattle
buzzing hum choking on broken machine bits
I like my breathing right now
writing phrases, Ginsberg’s “bebops”
breaking at the exhale
loving the long line, the free flow
accidental brilliance comes from overwhelming quantity
easiest way to catch it all is by talking
poems capture speech’s beauty
and people speak beautifully
inhale, exhale, break line, keep typing
5:30 again; we’re so well acquainted
spent so many times hanging out
staring dead eyed at the wall while I
smoke my last cigarette and think about
going to bed so I don’t have to buy more right away
snapping out of it and stumbling upstairs
or just tweaked out, teeth grinding
while I wait for my turn to talk some more
can’t keep doing all this shit
don’t want to go all Cassady
“twenty years of hard living” and all that junk
body gets more fucked up every time I smoke
or stay up for three days without food
gotta care about health more
just can’t bring myself to live boring again
god dammit | 
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