Day 861, November 10, 2022

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My Favorite Disintegrating Pen

My morning pen 
is starting to disintegrate 
and is now held together 
with a bit of scotch tape. 

You grow accustomed to some things, 
even if they are a little awkward 
and you invest in ink cartridges 
and rail against the slow entropy 
of disposable things. 

Nothing you care about 
should ever be made out of plastic. 
Or waffle cone. 

I think of today 
as an unsettled dream. 
Like wading through a 
chest deep swamp. 

What if one never leaves here, 
the short story never ends, 
the sickness never goes away, 
the bag of pita chips is never finished?



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