Living in Factotum: A Poem Stuck Between My Legs

In the same week
I learned to flip up a button
on the school water fountains
to attain auto-flow
(after 3 years of
pushing and leaning almost
breaking my finger holding it down to
try for more pressure
without success)

and then,

years of the erosion of my clickers
on my labtops touchpad
I realized a button
could be pushed
that left clicks
or is it right click
I cant tell because halfway through
I had switched their functions.

You win some,
you lose some.

I have that bitter old
kitchen crotch,
and feel like Bukowski (played
by Matt Dillon though not
Mickey Rourke),
while I mummify my thighs with
toilet paper in the stall twice a day,
carefully papering
my legs like a kid on Hallows eve with
asburgers who keeps
shit tight,
when the band comes around.

I’ve been listening to Dylan again and
I think between that
the Cohen and Dj Bl3nd
and Daft Punk, I might survive another gig


I might finish my novel.

It’s been a solid fucking month already,
and I haven’t even gotten, I haven’t even been, I still have yet to see,

my pay.


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