winter

i got to get out of this place.

even a carton of cigarettes

hidden in the icebox makes

me nervous thinking i might

run out. looking through the

same window day after day,

i no longer see anything

different. the same birds,

the same clouds, the same

grey squirrels. i’ll dig through

six foot snow drifts. 30 below

wind chill will freeze blood in

my thumbs. they will turn black

and fall off. i’ve learned to live

without things others think are

important. thumbs are just for

jacking off. there’s more than

one way to butter your corn. if

i don’t get out soon i might write

another love poem, filled with

debauchery. all of it fiction.