i guess i could…
use my morning pages time
to read and edit and rewrite and post
all the poems that have come thus far ?

maybe?

~~~

quietly track the purring
in rhythm with the caffeine beats
thumping [softly] out of these
shitty laptop speakers

the aesthetics you always thought you’d have
you surpassed with unexpected privilege
leaving you with the existential question

why?

~~~

and unrelatedly
why
does organizing
make me feel so much better?
.
. .
. . .
(i know why;
it’s because my brain is the opposite of organized.)