I have a hunch
about this course of angsty little scenarios
some over which I have no control
but could better handle tra-la
Others I relinquished
to my idiot version of self
My id
the fucker
so now I have a lunch on the 4th, a looming afternoon with my sick friend’s mom, a next-time-they-play-at-the-horseshoe full-on-promise, a pending hair cut – when’s the 28th? – a slew of half-promises, a cinch of maybes, a horizon of deadlines, plotless stories, a carnival novel

But about that hunch

what my chaos is all about you see it’s just a substitute now, silly things I can and will endure and even as I sit in restaurants or on couches drinking tea haircuts concerts what-the-fuck-ever I’ll make more promises, more fucking conundrums, complications – and here comes the good part

they’re all just substitutes
I might as well admit it
little primordial jolts of the days when it was love I was careless with