Money And Naps

for Mouthy

My nose started bleeding
so I’m writing you a poem.
I shouldn’t have
bothered putting a
tissue in my nose
the blood on my shirt
and notebook actually
signifying “authentic
writer thing” if
you’re into that.
Nobody is,
nobody interesting.
Skyler is coming tomorrow,
and Joe tonight. I
made a joke about
Foucault or
fuck it Suzerain’s
sovereign death instead.

Can you be interpellated
in a good way or am I
asking a shitty question?
Is there a “friendopticon”
(Skyler) and anyway
vomit’s your eau d’essence,
I’m a shitlord
we’ll always
have Samurai
Champloo.

Walking home from the
liquor store I got a lot
of mud on my shoes
thinking about shounen
as a genre and how
that gets played with,
subverted, in
the character of Mugen.

I’m writing about love now.
As a historical materialist, I
get asked for money
and laugh. Someone calls
my scarf sharp
I cross the street on the way
back to the bus from the bank
I just stole this pen
from. It already fell apart,
I dropped the top
into my chair. I haven’t
thrown up in awhile.

Cthulu should do some things in this poem:
Cthulu voting for Mitt Romney,
Cthulu asking when are the Oscars,
Cthulu inventing the business model for the contemporary bodega,
Cthulu going to Anime Con,
Cthulu dropping iPhones in the bathtub,
Cthulu touting his credentials as a policy wonk.

The division of labor upsets Cthulu
and my nose has stopped bleeding.
I’ve never read Lovecraft. Cthulu
is not for everybody
so shut up and go
home. I will. I still
don’t know what the fuck
shoegaze even is.
Happy birthday. 
Cowabunga!