Morning Routine

my mouth

or my asshole.

Constant sickness ravaging

choke down pills

quell the fire

still feel like shit smeared on a canvas

paraded around as art

when I am in reality a pseudo intellectual

punk with more brains than motivation.

What time is it?

One, two, 5:17?

AM?

PM?

It matters not.

Because tomorrow will be another wasted day

And the next will also be wasted

And the next

And the next.

I wonder if I should shave this morning?

My employer frowns on my appearance:

facial hair in three stages of untrimmed chaos

mustache and goatee long and ragged,

cheeks thickly layered with just a little less bush

the scuzz on my neck like the lawn of a neighbor

drunken and on unemployment while his wife and children

watch his decay in horror, never knowing when the next beating will occur.

I could brush my hair, but why?

I could brush my teeth. But I'm not planning on kissing any pretty girls

or any ugly girls

or any girls that would care whether or not my mouth was

germ free and copacetic.

I could change my underwear, but after all

they had been in the hamper for three days and were clean by proxy.

I could eat something but if I did I might vomit.

I haven't vomited in weeks so perhaps I'm due.

I could jerk off, but if I did,

I'd have to clean my underwear.

I could just try to not cum

like I learned in tantra books, but

after a while my dick feels clogged

and sore.

Mountains of paperwork stand ahead which

will be finished

hours before they must be turned in

and will receive either a "satisfactory"

or "excellent"

or "passing"

grade, scribbled in red ink with notes of praise or contempt

and I will promptly place it either in the garbage or in storage

for a later date at which point I will think "Hey, I

did this already."

I could smoke dope or inquire about finding more dope or I could ask someone I know if they want to smoke some dope with me.

And so I smoke and recline, feeling the war in the pit of my stomach

like a demon waiting to be exorcised.

Then I'll jot down some ideas and stare at the "to do" list

which reads only "4." (for I've since finished the other three meager goals I set for myself that leads me to wonder

why, in the name of me, did I purchase a dry erase board?)

"Quit job."

So I seek out to pen a letter to my employer that reads

"Dear madam,

It is with a heavy heart that I must resign my position as English teacher at this school. I have spent much time wrestling with this decision" (in reality two years, though the decision was made after the first week) "and it was not an easy one to make. I will continue to perform the best of my abilities" (somehow my minimum efforts are worthy of accolades unknown to people who put in at least twice the effort) "until the end of the term."

And I look at the paper and smile and am that point assailed by a bout of diarrhea and as

I feel the horrendous spasms in the pit of my stomach I try to spell diarrhea

in my mind.

Anything to get my mind off the pain

of being alive.

I'd assume diarrhea is the word

that does in countless young children at spelling bees

either laughing too hard under their breath and forgetting a correct spelling

or out of nervousness from forgetting how to spell the word

such that urine either almost or does trail down the left pantleg

a chafing uncomfortable wet warmth

and suddenly I'm ten again

and am shamed to lose a spelling bee on a word as simple as "church"

after having bested an entire group of other 5th graders.

I return to the school yard and am put down for being an idiot

by my best friends.

And suddenly I'm back to reality

stoned

vomiting

face in the toilet

cursing the birds who woke me up this morning.