-Author's Note: This is not the original (or ideal) formatting for this poem, but it's the best I can figure out for now and should give you an idea of where the breaks and indentations are supposed to be.
Laundry room at night with its musty breaths
exhales your troubled, semi-Freudian pseudo-wisdom
....great soap-smelling draughts down my back.
So much in love with vanity that I want to stop reading
stop eating over-processed semi-political platforms
....though I can’t smoke like Kerouac or type like him either
And I don’t know anything about the East or West
USA, plus I’d be too scared to be high, but
....maybe I see what you meant (…or might’ve meant).
Drip closer, smear a phrase or two from your paper
to my finger like honey or ketchup or whatever condiment
....helps me choke you down and call it good.
Translator sits in my eyes, tries adjusting for
more years than you ever hoped for
....Some angel-haired boy somewhere is probably thinking of you too.
It spills effervescent, transcendent, maybe false and I think
maybe my high came built it, something you lacked
....I’m sorry for everything we don’t share
Because I might never be anthologized, canonized
enlightened beyond my own well-being and maybe
....I’m not the best mind of whatever generation I’ve decided to be this week.
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