I woke up too early.
It was still dark out.
I tried to read some
Hunter S. Thompson, but
it made me thirsty,
not a drop in the
place.
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.
A few nights ago my
girlfriend and
I got into it.
She bit me and
scratched my face.
We were drunk on
wine from Argentina.
The coffee I’m
drinking doesn’t taste
right.
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.
In the wee hours of
the morning
I decided
to shave my head.
It took four razors, but
I finally got the
job done.
I looked in the
mirror,
and a stranger peered
back at me;
a head like Gandhi
and a face like Marciano.
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.
Yesterday
my girlfriend and I went
on a shoplifting spree.
I stole coffee,
a couple of books,
a hat, denture glue, and
a cock ring.
She’s a much better thief than
me.
She took
razors, two tapestries, laundry soap and
trash bags, makeup, shampoo
and coffee that doesn’t taste funny.
As the sun gently
kisses the horizon
and begins to bathe
Iowa City in golden light,
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.
Tomorrow morning
I have to be in
court.
A month ago I stole
some wine and got caught.
My day of reckoning has
almost arrived.
I should just get a
fine that I will
never pay, but
with these things,
one never knows.
The judge could be
hung over or constipated
or worse yet, he could have
read my poetry.
I really wish I were in
Puerto Rico.