my mornings are spelled like morning

I can’t remember anything I’ve ever read—not a single sentence—but I know what to do in the mornings.

This morning, I said “I am determined to have a positive attitude.” And I sucked down an iced coffee to shake the codene haze. Maybe you use NyQuil to sleep.

My mornings are edgy, eh?

No, they’re not. They are special k with strawberries mornings. Crunchy, freeze-dried strawberries in organic one percent that tastes like two.

Doesn’t milk taste like cheese after you swallow it? I mean later. Before you brush your teeth. I have never seen an udder, by the way.

So I shake off the haze, the last tendril of the last dream. I can’t remember this morning’s except the phrase, “ending her reality. Ha!” and the echoing sound of my alarm clock.

Waking always feel like laughing-laughing into-into a canyon-a canyon.

No. No it doesn’t.

Then I shower to wet my hair so I can comb it to look right. Parted and flat. Don’t know why that’s right or who its right for. I wear cowboy boots under my jeans. That’s for me.

It’s because I like to clump. The sound, not the gathering.

Then I stream into my ant hole in this ant pile city.