tea to strychnine

an angry turtle
peeking out
just enough
to realize
today is not
the day to
be me

broken bits

a human
maraca playing
a funeral
dirge discontentedly
through downtown

i paid for two hours
on the meter
so the car
blocking traffic
waiting for me
to move as i
do paperwork
in the shade of
brasswork buildings
need not
apply his horn
or the middle finger
will be my last
polite gesture

i switched from
sylvia to hank
like going from
tea to strychnine
so the mornings
are tinged with
a feral keening
not placated by
beautiful vistas

i recognize my
routines of doubling
down on bad moods
that angry old
german bastard
and the horses
and rigors of being
the famous chinaski
spewed in drunken
middle of the night
outbursts of his
flaccid indignation
play right along
with my venomous ire

after a week
without sunshine
it manages
to feel as if
it is a condescending
son of a bitch

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