When will I stop punching the clock?
Haven’t worked on the book since July.
So technically it is not every day.
I lie consecutively…footnoting the truth, nah.
The phosphenes are the only art made.
Daily to remind me I ain’t shit.
When will I stop punching the clock?
To affairs organized for others, excluding me.
I get paid to remain a have-not.
I have knots in my stomach everybody!
That tug me whenever I have ideas.
Of my own, on my own watch.
Why haven’t I stopped punching the clock?
Those “good nights” I say to customers.
Aren’t genuine because I can’t afford them myself.
The last time I had a good night.
I dreamed of my book on the big screen.
Second chapter unfolding in front of me.
It didn’t last long because your dreams aren’t supposed to.
I haven’t punched the clock since then.
Rubbing my eyes to stop the illusions.
Luminous floating stars, zigzags, swirls, spirals, and squiggles keep me company.
I will die, can’t forget to live.
The picayune ones breathe better than the gourmands who starve them daily.
I’m inspired now, starving to start again.
To punch the clock everyday I write the book as Elvis Costello said.

Biography: A 150-250-word biography is not enough to describe me and anybody in general. We are the brainchild of a bunch of bacterial burglaries. And those burglars themselves are advanced copies of single celled organisms that fed off of other microorganisms and organic debris. A word. Comprised of letters indecipherable to our fossil record is what made us. We don’t know how it looked; all we can do is guess. But a blossom it was it shall remain. Those whose petals drop near have the privilege of tracing their lineage, while those whose petals have been blown away have the wits to trace everybody else’s. My word is your word. This biography included. That is not hard to trace. We lie, we cheat, we steal. It’ll continue like that until there is no word to describe us, until it is stolen from…a burglar. How this burglar looks is anybody’s guess. Schadenfreude.