there’s a catfish buffet
this morning and the towns folks
are filling their plates
but we are drinking coffee
and still drunk from last night
the only cure for a hangover
is breakfast at J&Js, biscuits & gravy
pancakes and bacon to soak up
the sins from the night before
we are transplants, we are refugees
we are exiles living in a foreign land
where there are no consequences
there are those who make the poem
show up at their desks every morning
but we have sold our desks for pocket money
and squander our days chasing dragons
through dungeons until we are silhouettes
under a lonely midwestern Moon
trading stories and pot smoke
until inspiration forces itself through the fog
but those days have been fewer and fewer
we used to lay on my back porch with notebooks
screaming verses into the void until the void screamed back
now we drink until silence greets us
and carries us off to our studios
with heavy hearts and fumbled words
so we end up saying nothing at all 

Damian Rucci is the unofficial poet laureate of every 711 in New Jersey. His work has recently appeared on gas station bathroom stalls throughout the Midwest. He is probably banned from your local bar but you can find him on Twitter @damianrucci or at

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