Ook Ook

Two weeks down in a

Paralytic funk

Sun shining

Dark in this office

My eyes water

And the head pounds

And I don’t know why

I do it any more

It wasn’t the words

From the man

Who said

My book was great

Just not profitable

And too much me

It’s more that

The man

Who said that

Reminded me how

Nobody thinks

Of any kind of art

At all unless

It benefits them

Personally.

So it’s hip hurrah

And pounding keys

For this typed monkey

And the monkey steps back

And realizes, no.

So the monkey won’t take bananas

And the monkey won’t put boxes on boxes

And the monkey won’t smoke for the people’s amusement

So the monkey feels like he lacks a sense of purpose

Even though he knows a lot of his purpose is shit

It’s an empty feeling

Waking up at 3 in the afternoon

And wanting someone

Anyone

Or a drink

It’s a beautiful day out

I want to sit on the porch and just

Watch the world’s inmates

And I feel a sense of my pen coming back

Finally

After two weeks in hell

But something in him has been

Cut out and lies on the

Semantic table

I wish I could examine it

But

Monkey needs to put box on box.

Monkey needs to smoke.