Rochambeau...

its 8-fucking thirty and there is no fucking going on

the biggest decision Ive made today is
which convenience store was going to
sell me dinner
wonderful...
I
know

no fucking, no dinner
at least not yet
dinner will consist of
vegetable soup
a turkey sandwich: served in a whole wheat tortilla
with
artichoke & spinach hummus
and american cheese
and
a delicious diet dr. pepper, 2009
a very good vintage
or at least that's what I was told

not feeling lonely
or alone
but almost like
I've run out of friends
or that
my life has taken a turn
towards full on mundane
and in addition
I've unknowingly taken up
residence on the moon

so many ways to keep in contact
email
twitter
facebook
IM
cellphone
landline
motherfucking skywriting
and part of me feels
like
no one will
answer no matter
how loud I yell

electric ladyland
providing brief reprieve
from
ho humming myself to sleep
wishing for time machine
or maybe just
a
lobotomy
so I can be happy
knowing I have a full belly
wearing pants that fit
without having to ask permission
to go to the bathroom

I want you to update
and you
and you too
to communicate
to admit to people
feelings & emotions
have not gone the way of the buffalo
or VHS
or dial up connections

to be more than
a fucking abercrombie/walmart/chevy/beer commercial
to want more
than everything being
force fed down our
throats
to
grab a warm drink
on a cold night
in a comfy sweatshirt
hold hands with someone
and watch a clear fall
night sky

I hope you all are well.

Cheers,
JJ