I AM THE BEST POET OF MY GENERATION

(SERIOUSLY GEOFF, TELL ME WHO ELSE!!!)

I mean really,
it's amazing that,
after years, years,
tears,
yes!

I am still single and my parents are still paying for my education instead of grandchildren.

Let's be frank.
I am a genius.
I am.

And it is 5:20am
and I've seen the best minds of my generation…

well, there are none.

Like.

If I were Jesus, I wouldn't bother trying to work towards salvation; too many apps for iPhones. Instead, there is a gas station in
Upstate New York
where the cigarettes are cheap
and the badly-dyed hair can't distract me from your pregnancy.

I used to think that Jerry Bear had it all wrong. I mean, poverty exists so can you really spend a day doing acid? But I don't do acid, and still, poverty, so why not?

I want to lick the leaves of trees.

Smell pollen.

Or at least smell wet dog in August.

Fresh.

Water.

Lake.

I can do nothing.

Mom, Dad,

you are still in debt and I am sorry. The nineties were different, really!
You were right, but too late.

It would have been this way regardless, but I know now why you didn't know that then.

Hugs.
And let's get some cookies from Vaccaro's on the way back from Little Italy.

Dad;

Mom and I will eat most of them while you drive; not because we are hungry, but to spite you.

Almost 34 and still I wonder when the landlord will turn on the heat.

That it's a "privilege" still means that, for all of the billions spent on elections, on ads, on campaign flyers

and money spent on apps that might help me find my way home,

still,
yes,
shivering.

As if.

It could be 1890. I could be in St. Petersburg.

At least.

I could read Gogol in his native tongue.

The Overcoat.

My phone tells me it's cold.

Imagine.

Love.

Your fucking son who doesn't fuck.

Who else will?