It’s a beautiful day out
but I’m spending it inside
after a feverish drive
all the way to Kenosha
for a damned typewriter that I
don’t even know if it works

I’m in one of those moods where
I’ll do whatever acts I must commit
to get what I want

I hardly remember the drive
just thinking how excited I was
for a damned typewriter

my head hurts
telling me I should eat more than
the breakfast biscuits I had this morning

I think of the things I should be doing;
the music I should be reviewing
the poetry I should be reading
the shit I shouldn’t be buying

but now I’m back home playing
with my new toypwriter
like it will make me a better writer
even though I know that’s
all bullshit

horseshit just like
a camera doesn’t make
the photographer
or a paintbrush
the Picasso

but I’ll keep sitting here like a monkey
hoping I’ll make my modern-day Shakespeare
with this damned typewriter
I don’t regret buying

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