THIS IS A POEM 1.8.17

1.8.17

I opened up my notebook, and

on a nearly empty page I found these words:

 

Time is red. 

 

There is no possible interpretation of this phrase.

There is no reason for this poem.

There is no reason for anything.

There is nothing left to do but die,

slowly,

over the span of fifty years or so.

I’m not as unhappy as I sound.

 

Written at 11:30 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, while battling the remorseless insistence of an empty stomach. 

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