Thursday

  Cigarette butts are in the ashtray
  Where they should be
  And the brown rim halfway down the
  Coffee cup I drank from this morning
  Is also in its proper
  Divinely appointed place
  I am here as well
  And my chest is on the sofa
  And my eyes are glazed with thursday
  And my head is filled with mad
  Hyperanimated thoughts
  And it makes me wanna go find a like mind
  And fill his ears with vitriolic nirvana
  And scream at his dead end exclusivity
  Fustration will not be tolerated
  In the perfect state
  Just excess
  Heavenly excess
  A systematic collation of experiences
  And words and Mr. Like mind
  Who suffers for his art 
  And suffers for his people
  And walks in circles trying
  To see his own trace in history
  But can't seem to find
  A single thing
  To shout at.
		Summer 1997