November 5th

A visit to a cafe

It’s November 5th.

i can’t believe I ever thought I was going to be a poet.

i go where the intellectuals are

or at least we call ourselves intellectuals.

with somewhat coherent musings on Baudelaire, Blake, Wordsworth, and Cummings,

and gratuitous affinities for the classics and Transcendental Americana .

these pricks are insufferable

cross-legged, stroking our chins and egos,

circle-jerking pity-parties,

everything is s****y:

life is s****y

modernity is s****y

fun is s****y.

slurping our coffee and smiling when someone understands our critiques that have been posited thousands of times far more eloquently than us on Nietzsche and Stirner and Marx,

i can’t believe I spent $3.56 on a small mocha latte just to complain about capitalism,

i can’t believe I told the cashier “You too” when she told me to enjoy the coffee,

maybe this is why I’ll die alone.

Author's Note

Inspired by Bukowski, not proud of this one.