Daily Bread.

Some of the most beautiful things live under our beds. But we cannot appreciate them adequately, or at all, due to lack of perspective, and light, and comprehension of dust mites and mice droppings and disregarded remnants of Bacon Lettuce and Tomato sandwiches on toasted sourdough bread we chose over lasagna. We should have had lasagna. Always have the lasagna. Always.

Not that there are many other choices for us to consider. But, consider this, if you will.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at
dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient
heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the
machinery of night,

That wasn't me. That was Ginsberg. That wasn't me. That was "Howl." There is more. Much more. Go forth and explore.

I have a new found appreciation for posting poetry in lieu of something else slightly more time consuming. The only thing more ridiculous might be Pacino's accent in "Carlito's Way."

There cannot be much more to say. Eye lids droop like grandmothers' bossom. Morning creeps up like grandmothers' bottoms. When the lids meet the elasticized waist band it will be the day you fought off bad dreams about to no avail as there is always an alarm. An end. A beginning. Mel Gibson's "Apocolyptico". Or some sadistic bullshit. I am not quite sure. Never was. Never wanted to be.

Get better friends who need such wishes. You know who you are. Love to all others. Except for you. You know who you are.

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