I sit weeping beneath the listful heavens,
watching brother and brother unite,
as the forming of this unification
finds a means to kill the father.

How wretched we have become,
How stark our language finds us.
What then are we to withhold
From the lion who lies in wait?

A prayer from merchants, empty of salvation,
Hear me and listen, pay heed my friend,
For these one thousand nights will pass for you as well
Prepare a way for their coming,
And lose yourself amongst the sands of death.

I am a judge.
My gaze falls upon thee.
We are many.
I am not one.
I am many.
Make no mistake; I have come to judge thee.

See the world as you wish.
But know that it is ignorance.
You view a façade, an illusion.
Our verdict shall be rendered soon.
Make no mistake; I have come to judge thee.

By twilight’s hour, your call rings out.
Although, you may now foresee no call.
We listen with little concern.
Your scoffing has already set the course.
Your ignorance has forged the outcome.
Make no mistake; I have come to judge thee.

We sit oblivious to each other's decisions.
We know not what the others speak.
Our awareness of each is lacking.
But, our thoughts are as one.
The majority rules.
Make no mistake; I have come to judge thee.

[BACK TO TOP]

Poetry,
what a weird damn thing!
I’ve written tons of great poems,
I mean truly great, great poems.
I’ve lost them all.

I don’t know where I put them.
I wrote them down and left them somewhere,
they must haven gotten moved by someone;
they must have been put away;
lost forever most likely.
it’s a shame really;
they were really, really great poems.

I don’t mean that I wrote them all at once,
and then lost them.
oh no, not at all – Not by a long shot.
I would write one,
then another quite a while later.
I wrote a bunch of really bad ones in between.

None of them rhymed much I don’t think.
well, perhaps a few did.
I can’t quite be sure now.
I think I wrote most of them while I was stoned.
words sometime seem to flow easier when I’m stoned.

I don't get stoned much anymore

I wish I could remember them,
I’d write them down again.
but, although I’ve tried,
I just can’t remember.
I do remember that they were good.
I don’t remember what they were about,
or how they went.
I wish I could remember
if they even ever existed at all.

It’s a real shame that they’re gone now.
you would have loved them.
they were really, really great.
damn, those poems were so good.

This one is shit.

[BACK TO TOP]

I sit here,
sipping bourbon,
smoking a cigarette,
wonderfully sleazy saxophone jazz
is playing in the background.
I am enjoying myself
as I pour my thoughts out on to paper.

And,
there are people who hate me for it.

Charlie Parker’s ‘Ri Bop Boys’
is oozing softly
from my stereo,
the night is sweltering.
It’s August.
a hot,
sticky August night.
another sip of bourbon,
another drag of my cigarette.

And,
there are people who hate me for it.

Those fucking neo-puritan,
quasi-fascist bastards,
I can smell the rot of their contempt.
I can feel the putrescence of their judgment.
they can’t stand how sweet my bourbon tastes,
they despise the satisfaction
that a long slow drag
from my cigarette
brings me.

I felt their ears prick up
when they heard the snap of my lighter,
they are out there,
somewhere
in the night,
behind the veil of darkness.
they hide behind the city lights
that shine through my window.

But,
I know they are out there.
I felt their gaze
turn towards me
when they heard me slurp my bourbon.

Their vile jealousy reeks
of the decay of a human soul.
I can hear the whining and whirring
of their inability to comprehend
how a person might dare to risk self-destruction
in exchange for pleasure,
In exchange for life,
in exchange for living.
they hate me for it,
they breathe contempt,
they preach a living death..

Another drag,
another sip,
my cigarette
satisfies,
my bourbon
is sweet,
Charlie Parker’s song ends,
Coltrane’s ‘Countdown’ begins.

[BACK TO TOP]

I’ve been sneaking out at night,
I’ve been sneaking out,
looking for lions.

But,
don’t tell anyone.
If they knew,
they’d put a stop to it.

Or
worse,
they might have me shot.

I haven’t found any yet.
Lions I mean.

I’ve looked,
but I haven’t found any.
I know there must be some,
somewhere close by,

After all,
we wouldn’t be here right now
if
there weren’t any.

Would we?

I’ve found plenty of weasels.
This fucking neighborhood is infested with them.
I suppose that should tell me something
about the number of lions in this area.
If there were more lions,
or at least some,
it stands to reason
that we wouldn’t have this weasel problem.

I’ve even seen a few skunks
every now and then.
They dig through the neighborhood garbage.
They’re pretty hard to spot
in the darkness.

You can hear them
The skunks
routing around,
You can hear them
long before you can see them.

I’m always afraid that I’m going to get sprayed.
They’re like that you know.
Those little bastards will spray you,
just for approaching them.

They seem to get along with the weasels well enough.
Both just seem to ignore each other.
Most of the time

I suppose if there were lions around,
we wouldn’t have this skunk problem either.

I’m going to sneak out again tonight.

Last night,
I thought I heard a distant roar.
I don’t know though,
it might have just been a car
off in the distance.
I’m sure I’ll find a lion or two,
if I just keep looking.

I’m sneaking out again tonight,
and tomorrow night
too.
I’m going to find a damn lion if it kills me.
I know they’re out there,
somewhere,
I can’t be the only one.

I can't be
the only one.

I’m sneaking out again tonight.
Don’t tell anyone though.
If they found out,
they’d put a stop to it.

Or worse,
they might have me shot.

[BACK TO TOP]

I’d order a double of Johnnie Walker Red,
if they had it.
“What have you got for Scotch”, I’d ask the bartender,
“You got Johnnie Red?”, I’d say.
Most places around here stock it,
luckily enough.
The problem is,
it’s hard to find a good bartender these days.

“Give me a double of Johnnie Red then.”, I’d say.

“Neat!”

Half the time,
they wouldn’t know
what I meant by
“Neat.”

So,
I started saying
“Straight.”
or
“Straight up.”

But, sometimes,
they’d put ice in it.
You’d figure they would think
that if I wanted ice,
I would have asked for it.
But,
it’s hard to find a good bartender
these days,
At least
around here it is.

I can’t stand ice in a good stiff belt of Scotch.
So, I started saying:
“Give me a double of Johnnie Red, straight-up, no ice.”
Just
to make sure.

But,
that was then,
when
I used to be a Scotch drinker.

Used to be.

I just don’t like Scotch the way I used to.
Rum has always turned my stomach.
Vodka is good,
but I can’t drink it straight.
Tequila is ok.
Rye is all right too.

But, now my drink
is bourbon.
Jim Beam
if they have it.
“Give me a double of Jim Beam, straight-up, no ice!” I say.
just to make sure.

Man,
that stuff tastes good,
Better
than Scotch
ever did.
Bourbon tastes better now
than scotch
used to taste,
back
when I used to be
a Scotch drinker.

Used to be.

[BACK TO TOP]

The woman who lives behind me
just opened her blinds,
she opened the blinds
of her bedroom window,
she circumambulated
around her room
for a while,

Then
she
took off her top,
and put on
a new one.

She does this quite often.

If my eyesight had been better,
I probably would have gotten
a good view of her breasts.

I can’t help but see,
her window is directly behind mine.
I sit at my computer,
working,
my window is 2 feet to the right of my head,
when her lights come on,
and her blinds go up,
it attracts my attention,
and my head turns to see.

It’s almost as if
she knows I’m here,
it’s almost as if
she wants me
to watch her,
but,
that can’t be the case.
I don’t know if she can see me or not,
I usually work in the dark,
only the soft blue light of my computer monitor
illuminates me,

illuminates me,
only that
illuminates me,

She can’t know
that I can see her
from way over here

She’s young,
early twenties
I’d say,
quite pretty,
long, brown hair,
she’s in excellent shape,
thin,
she has a very attractive figure,
her breasts
seem
quite large
and nicely shaped,
but, it’s hard to tell exactly,
from way over here.

I thought about
getting some binoculars,
but that seems sleazy,

I thought about
getting a video camera
with
a high-powered
zoom lens,
but that seems criminal.

I wonder if she knows that I can see her,
from way over here?

She can’t know,
she mustn't be able
to see me,
all the way over here,
sitting
in the relative dark
with only the soft blue light of my computer monitor
illuminating me
only that
illuminating me

I wonder how she would react
if she did know?
I wonder if she
will ever know
that I’m writing a poem
about her?

She won’t.

She might even read this poem
someday,
But
she
won’t know
that
it’s about her.

She’ll likely
grow old and die one day,
and
she’ll never know
that some weirdo poet,
some crackpot artist,
used to sit
and watch her change
her clothes.

She’ll never know that a poem
was written
about her.
Taking off her top,

All the way over there.

[BACK TO TOP]

5 minutes after midnight,
Friday,
September 24th,
2004,

from outside,
on the street,
somewhere
beneath my window,
a woman screams,
and,
screams
again.

I rush to see what is happening.
Is someone
in trouble?
Does someone
need my help?

Three girls fumble down the road,
each of them on 'roller-blades'
they are obviously new to the activity.

Their arms
flail
wildley
in a frantic
constant
attempt
to maintain balance
and
dignity.

I suppose that
one of them
has just had a close call.

a near encounter
with
painful
injury

One of them yells out:

“That was a close one, Megan Leavy!”

They then
disappear
down the street
into the blackness
arms
still flailing
wildley

A strange thing to be heard
on an empty street,
In the night,
in the dark,
5 minutes
after midnight,

I am witness to this.
although,
they don’t know it.

And,
never will.

Another moment
lost in time.

[BACK TO TOP]

Buy my art!
Just buy it!
Do it dammnit!
Buy lots of it,
often.

Not enough of you are doing that!
Dammnit, I need the money!
I need the money so badly
If you only knew
If you only knew

Each work that I create is
passion
each work is
love
each work is
life
each work is
human
each work is
humanity

You can own all of that
imagine
you can actually own that
you can own a piece of me
a piece
of what it is to be me

In a perfect world
such things would be
priceless
it is the imperfection
of this existence
that makes my work
affordable
able
to be procured
for a
price
and a reasonable price
at that

the irony is
that the money I need
is such a miniscule
fraction
of the available money
in the world
and yet
I can’t seem to get my
hands on even that
tiny amount

Buy my art!
Just do it!
Just buy the damned art!

you’ll be the better for it
and you’ll receive value
for your money
a part of my being

you’ll enrich your
existence
through the acquirement
of fine things
and, I might be able to
eat

Just buy the damned art!
Just do it!
Buy it often
offer me more than what I’m asking

Just do it!
Buy my art already!

[BACK TO TOP]

This particular delicatessen
has the best smoked meat sandwiches
in the city
but I wasn't there for that
on this day
I was there for breakfast

Bacon and two
with a side of sausage
and a toasted
sesame seed bagel
with cream cheese
and a bottomless coffee

about seven bucks
worth of food
if you get there before
eleven a.m.
which I rarely do
I’m rarely even awake
before eleven a.m.
I work nights mostly

A family sits at the table next to me
a father
mother
and daughter

As they sit down
the two women of the group
place identical
matching purses
on their table

The purses are odd looking
very small,
tiny even
black and gold
quite ugly
but each identical to the other

The young daughter
about eighteen I’d say
and
very pretty
begins to rifle through her purse

“You’ve got too much stuff in there!”
the mother exclaims
“You’re going to ruin your purse!”
“You just got it! And it’s going to be ruined!”
“You paid
twelve-hundred dollars
for that purse,
and you’re not even gonna have it a week
before it’s ruined!”

Twelve-hundred dollars? I thought

There is actually
more than
two-thousand dollars
worth of purses
sitting on the table next to me
incredible
I didn’t think people who would
spend that kind of money
on such frivolous things
actually existed.

Then I thought:
“There sits two people
who need to be taken out
into a field somewhere,
made to kneel in the grass,
and then shot
in the back of the head
execution style.
then skinned
their hides tanned
and branded
with a description
of their crimes
then
their empty flesh
placed high on a pike
for everyone to see
until they rot
in the sun and rain
and are pecked apart
by birds
and devoured
by
necropaghi

Meanwhile
outside
on the street
less than a few blocks away
homeless people
were begging for nickels
for food

Jesus!
buy a thirty dollar fucking purse
you stupid bitches
you cunts
and do something useful
with the other
eleven-hundred and seventy dollars

What are people like that
even doing eating
in a place like this anyhow?
A place that serves
a seven dollar breakfast?
perhaps they are here
for the smoked-meat

The urge to grab their purses
and toss them out into
the traffic
crawling along
on the street outside
was almost overwhelming

"There!" I'd say
"Now you don't have your fucking ugly purses
or your twenty-four hundred dollars anymore!
So, shut-up and eat your
fucking breakfast
or your smoked-meat
or whatever the hell you are going to order
and think
about what you've done!
and
think about
who you are!
Think about
what sort of a person
would spend such money
on such a thing!"

I wondered what the homeless man
on the corner
would think
If he knew
that twenty-four hundred dollars
had been spent on two purses
I wondered what he would do
with that kind of money

I looked down at my seven dollar
breakfast
I wondered when the last time was
that he’d eaten a seven dollar
breakfast

I could have made this same breakfast
at home
for two or three dollars
maybe I should be taken out
into a field somewhere
and shot
in the back of the head
execution style

[BACK TO TOP]

The thoughts are never sinister
in any way
just odd
meaningless
sometimes
irrational
silly
they just pop in
linger for a split second
literally, a fraction of a second
and are gone again

I wonder if this makes me insane?

I’ve never thought that I was insane
but for most of my adult life
I’ve felt that I have been just barely
holding on to my sanity
as if my sanity
was desperately trying to flee
from me
and I had it by the very tip of it’s tail
gripping it only by a sweaty
thumb and forefinger

I wonder what would happen if it ever
finally did slip
from my grasp
what flavor of insanity would I inherit?

I doubt very much that I would be
any sort
of aggressive maniac
no
I foresee tortuous catatonia
as the most likely scenario
or something close to it

Perhaps I would sit in a room
all day
refusing to acknowledge
the presence
of anyone around me
I would just sit there
talking nonsense to myself
with a look of sheer horror
permanently
fixed onto
and dyed into
my face

I would likely freeze every so often
cease my incessant mutterings
sit silent for a while
as the grimace of terror strengthened
I’d gasp a deep gasp and
cry out
“I see reality! Oh god! I see reality!”
“not yours or mine you understand!” I would shout
“I see the reality of the universe!”
I would then demand that seventeen
soft boiled eggs
be brought before me
to stand trial for their crimes
I would accuse them of perjury
I would then begin to stomp my feet
and demand that all
relevant
testimony
be stricken
from the record
then
It would be back to the
nonsensical mutterings

earlier, as I was writing
some of my
poetry
I had one of these thoughts
one of these
strange, disjointed thoughts
a particularly odd one
an excessively meaningless
silly
thought

I thought
as I was writing
a poem
I really, really hope
that David Cross
likes my poetry

then
the split second of emotional response
“Yes! That is true!”
I feel it
really feel it
it is very important
colossally important
that David Cross
likes my poetry

and then the thought was gone

Of course
the thought was meaningless
I don’t actually give a rat’s ass
if David Cross
or anyone else
for that matter
likes my poetry
I don’t know why it crept into my brain
I have no idea
but
all of a sudden
for no reason whatsoever
there it was

I don’t know David Cross
from Adam
he might be an asshole
or
he might be a great guy
I’ve never met the man
I don’t know
I’m a fan of his work
but not really ‘one of his fans’
or a fan of his
or of him

I think he’s very talented
very funny
he seems quite intelligent
other than that
I don’t know anything about the man

for those of you who don’t know
who David Cross is
he’s an actor/comedian
one of the creators of a t.v. show
called Mr. Show

Now, Mr. Show does happen to be
one
of my
all time
favorite
television shows

In fact
in the history of televised comedy
I think there is four important
works
which stand in a class of their own
above the rest
each of them key moments in the evolutionary ladder
of televised comedy

They are:

Monty Python

Saturday Night Live
(But, only with the
original
Not Ready For Prime Time Players)

The Kids In The Hall

and
Mr. Show

those shows
to televised comedy
are kind of like what
Chuck Berry,
The Beatles,
The Rolling Stones,
Jimi Hendrix,
etc.
are to recorded music
for me

key players, key moments
who and that
advanced their craft

But, as for David Cross
one of the creators of Mr. Show
I don’t know him
I don’t care if he likes my poetry
anymore than
I care
i f John Cleese,
or Michael Palin,
or Chuck Berry
or Paul Mcartney
like my poetry

So, David Cross,
co-creator of Mr. Show,
if you’re reading this
I really don’t give a half-a-shit
if you like my poetry or not
I did once
for a fraction of a second
but I really don’t
anymore

[BACK TO TOP]

“Not to worry.”
said a voice
in a dream
“Not to worry.”
said the voice
“For soon, you will be coming home.”

“Not to worry.”
said a vision
a woman
an angel
devine
radiant
beaming
glorious
in love
in warmth
in splendor
“Not to worry.”
said a voice
“For soon, you will be coming home.”

“But how can I know?” I asked
“How can I know that this is not
purely
just a dream?
devoid of significance?
a meaningless
construct of my own
sub-concious?
how can I know?” I asked

“You can’t” replied the voice
“And, such is the torture
of your state of
being,
of your manner of existence
such is the price levied
for your failures
for your arrogance
for your mistakes
for your wars
such is the price.
But,
not to worry.
For soon you will be coming home.”

“Not to worry.” Said the voice
in a dream
said the vision
the angel
radiant
beaming
“Not to worry.
For soon you will be coming home.”

[BACK TO TOP]

rip at the
flesh
tear from the
animal
feed
eat
and
regenerate

how alien is this form we take
this body
this flesh
how alien it appears
when we close our
eyes
to what we know
to be inherently true
as so few of us
are able to do
how alien is this form
when we agree
that all we know
may not be so

eat
with teeth
with jaw
sustain this form
this alien body
like dogs
tear at the flesh
of another
eat

Eat of the animal
of the fauna
and of the foliage
and of all the fruits
of the earth
and of all the roots
and of all the growths
of the dust
from whence you came

eat
tear
rip
sustain
regenerate
like dogs
wild dogs
rabid dogs
eat of the flesh
sustain this form
tear
rip
eat

and rejoice

[BACK TO TOP]

I used to work for a charity organization;
I didn’t volunteer or anything,
they gave me a job,
a paying job.
The hours were standard,
the pay was shit,
but it was a job.
The purpose of this particular organization
was to provide jobs to people
who couldn’t really work anymore;
who had sustained some injury,
or had some sickness
and were unable to work
in any standard sense.
This organization would provide
them with mostly menial tasks
to fill out their days
and make them feel as though
they still had a purpose,
and provide them with a small
paycheck
to supplement their
disability payments.

The jobs
they were given to do
mostly consisted of
stuffing envelopes,
collating papers,
or assembiling
cardboard boxes.

Insert tab ‘A’ into slot ‘B’

My job was to sort of
help out in running things
and also
sometimes
stuff envelopes
and assemble
cardboard boxes
when there wasn’t enough
disabled people there to
finish the task on time.

There was one man there
named Frank.
He’d been there longer than anyone.
He was in his seventies
and had
suffered
a stroke
at some time in the past.

The stroke had affected
his motor skills
and his speech.
He’d lost most of the use of one arm.
He could still walk,
but had difficulty doing so.
His speech was little more
than grunts, groans and a series of hums.
Most people
couldn’t understand
what Frank was saying.
But, after you spent some time around him
you sort of learned
to figure out his meaning.

Frank had a kindness about him.
He was a remarkable man.
He’d lived a life,
a hell of a life.
He radiated a warmth,
and above all,
he reeked of a wisdom
that gave him a strength
that the most youthful and able of bodies
could never provide.
He was generous.
He was immensely likable.
Even though his form was twisted,
his speech unnatural and labored,
after a short time,
you just sort of stopped seeing that.
It all seemed to just disappear
and Frank became
just Frank,
no different than anyone else who worked there.

He was funny,
he was generous,
and
the most noticeable thing about Frank
was that he was always trying
to give everyone cigarettes,
always!
Every time you saw him
he would open his pack of cigarettes,
take one out,
hold it out towards you
and grunt: “Ungh-aouw? ”

He did this constantly throughout the day
to anyone who came into contact with him.
That’s largely how he was known:
“If you see Frank” It was known throughout the building,
“He will offer you a cigarette.”

I liked Frank a lot.
He had a wisdom about him,
a wisdom that only seventy some odd years
of putting up with life’s shit
can give you.
He had a kindness about him,
a warmth,
a friendliness.
I liked Frank a lot.

One day Frank came up in a conversation
between my boss and I.
My boss at that job was an ok guy too.
He was young,
although still quite a bit older than me at the time.
He was friendly,
but had no sort of special friendliness about him.
He was kind,
but had no sort of special kindness about him.
He had no sort of wisdom about him at all.

“Don’t accept cigarettes from Frank.”
He told me
”Frank pisses on his fingers.”

How differently we view people
I thought.
How differently we all see each other.
What individually different worlds
we all inhabit.

[BACK TO TOP]

“Matisse was a clown; a fraud.”
said an
acquaintance of mine
an artist
a classical realist
“Matisse was a clown;
he didn’t have
complete control
over colour and form.”

“And neither do you!”
I said
“and neither do I
and neither has any artist
who has ever lived,
in all of human history.”

“So, who are the real clowns?”
I asked
“Those who recognize this?
Who explore,
exploit,
and illustrate
this truth?

Or,
those who
vainly attempt to deny it
and fool themselves
and the world
into believing it's not true?”

“Boo-Yaa!!”
Said another acquaintance of mine
an artist
a modern abstractionist

[BACK TO TOP]

The wages of sin
is not only
death
that is what they
do not tell you

death is not even
the most burdensome
wage

the most burdensome
wage of sin
is ignorance
it is our punishment
for our vanity
our vain attempt
to become gods
ourselves
to play God
to be God

for this
we have been banished
from enlightenment
from knowing God
we have been punished
doomed to ever seek knowledge
and to never find it
to labour under an illusion
that we may inform ourselves
through rational thought
as to the true nature of
the universe
the true workings
of the mind of God
never truley realizing that
no matter how much
we think we know
none of it is certain
no matter how much
we think we know
we may know nothing

our science is a game
of chance
arrogance is the ante
our own naivety is the dealer
the watchman
the whoremaster

[BACK TO TOP]

Why are we here?
Why all the consternation over this
question?
Is the answer not glaringly
obvious?

We are here
because
the universe is here
and if we weren’t here
with it
watching it
knowing it was here
then what would be the
point?

What would be the point
in the universe being here?
if we weren’t here?
what would be the point
in this massive expulsion
of energy?
of work?

For existence to be
meaningful
a record must be kept

without a record of existence
the existence does not occur
or, at the very least
might as well not occur

From this
we can tell
that the infinite existence
of consciousness
In some form
is almost
guranteed

For existence not only relies
on a current record
but an ongoing one
an everlasting record

For once the record ceases to be kept
the existence ceases to have been

In order for the universe to
ever
have been here at all
somone
must always keep viewing it
or, at least
remaining aware
that it ever was

Someone must always know
that it was ever here at all
or else,
it simply wont have been

And you
simply
wont have been

If it all ever ends
if all traces
all forms
of conciousness
ever
dies
if the record
ever
ceases to be kept

then
right now
you
do not exist

But!
despair not!

I think,
therefore,
I shall
always
be

[BACK TO TOP]

“your poetry is shit!!!”
read the e-mail

“I just found your website and read some
of your poems man they’re fucking junk!
its not really poetry its just writing about
things I couldn’t believe it when I read it
so I had to write and tell you what I think
man get a clue! no offense but you suck
dude !!!. my dog could write better poetry
than your shit-ass stuff you call that poetry?"

“Yes, I call that poetry.”
My response read
“And, here’s a brand new poem
that I wrote
just for you:

Fuck You!”

But, I'd like to meet his dog.

[BACK TO TOP]

“A”

At roughly the same time
another poet
was writing another poem
which just said:

“B”

A debate then formed
as to which
exactly
was the shortest poem
ever written

The general consensus
was that they both were
the shortest poems
ever written
as both poems contained
the same amount of words
and the same amount of
letters
so
in essence
it was a tie

However, the poet who wrote
the ‘b’ poem
argued that
technically
his poem was shorter

His argument was that
since both poems
contained the same amount
of words,
the same amount
of letters,
then that factor
must be thrown out
as a measuring device.

Instead,
he argued
that when written
in the same typeface,
and the same point size,
the letter ‘B’ takes up
less horizontal space
than does the letter ‘A’
in the majority of
typefaces.

Experts were called in
to assess the matter,
panels were formed,
commissions were
initiated,
independent
investigations were
carried out,
un-biased
third-party
arbitrators
were summoned
to hear the case.

All findings were
inconclusive
and nobody could
agree

Many years later
entire dissertations
were written on
the matter

And, the world
still can’t make up
it’s mind

[BACK TO TOP]

In Junior high school
there was a girl I liked
and I decided to
ask her out
on a date
I’d asked other girls
out on dates before
but this time it was
different
this was the first
time
I would
ask out a girl
whom I was genuinely
smitten with
it took me a long time
to build up the courage
I was so certain I would be rejected

I finally called her
and asked her
and to my surprise
and joy
she said
yes

We decided
to meet each other
at the theatre

I was extremely
nervous
and very
excited
this date was more
important
to me than any date
I had ever been on before
I had had a crush on this girl
for a long time
and she didn’t know it

I actually went out
and bought a whole set
of new clothes
because I wanted to
impress her so badly
i borrowed as much
money
as I could
from as many
people
as I could
and I bought the
finest
clothes I could afford
a new shirt
new pants
new socks
a flashy belt
and the finest,
sharpest looking
shoes
I had ever owned

I spent
forever
getting ready for my date

We had agreed to meet
at the theatre
well before the movie began
I got on the bus
and left for the theatre
I arrived on time
but she wasn’t there

I waited
but she didn’t arrive
so
I waited some more
but she still didn’t arrive
the movie began
and, I waited some more
but she still didn’t arrive

by that time
I figured she just wasn’t going to show up
so I went into the theatre
sat down
and watched the movie
it was
Rodney Dangerfield’s
‘Back to School’

That was the first time
I had asked out a girl
whom I had been genuinely
smitten with
whom I had had a crush on
that was the first time
I had ever really wanted
to impress a girl
that was the first time
I had bought clothes for myself
that was the first time
I had ever been stood up on a date
and
that was the first time
I ever watched a movie
in a theatre
alone

When the movie ended
I got on a bus and went home
I exited the bus
at the bus stop
a few blocks from my house
as I was walking home
I stepped in a mud puddle
and ruined
my brand new shoes
my brand new
white
cotton
shoes
the finest,
sharpest looking
shoes
I had ever owned
the ones I had bought
specifically for this date
just to impress a girl
who stood me up

But
I thoroughly enjoyed the movie
Rodney Dangerfield
made me
laugh
even though I was feeling rotten
about being
stood up
he actually made me forget about it
for awhile
at least until the movie was over

Rodney Dangerfield
died today
he was a comedian
he spent his life
making people laugh
myself included
Rodney Dangerfield
died today

[BACK TO TOP]

Alone here
typing,
smoking,
drinking,
alone here
again tonight
soft jazz
playing quietly,
a small fan
whirring incessantly,
clearing the smoke,
alone here
again tonight

alone here
again tonight
October brings its chill
the nights are getting cold,
frost on my window,
snow will be coming soon,
alone here
4:22 a.m.
the world is sleeping
but I am not

alone here
again tonight
like a thousand nights before;
ten-thousand perhaps
alone here
again tonight
alone

[BACK TO TOP]

Where’s Rickey?
Rickey’s dead.
A large concrete cylinder fell on him
when he was
about ten years old.
I knew him when I was a child

Where’s Kane?
Kane’s dead;
killed in a motorcycle accident
when he was
about sixteen years old.
I went to high-school with him.

Where’s ‘Cheeks’?
'Cheeks' is dead;
Also killed in a motorcycle accident
when he was
about twenty years old.
I knew him when I was a young man.

Is that it?
Nope.
Not by a long shot.
There have been others,
many others.

Then,
Where are you?

I’m still here,
for now

[BACK TO TOP]

The poetry was ok
I suppose,
not great,
not even good
really.
but ok

However,
the man
who wrote it,
seemed to be
an asshole
of sorts.

“Thank you for not smoking cigarettes”
read a message on his website.
well,
fuck him!
I smoked the whole time I was reading
his mediocre poetry
and
I enjoyed my smoke
immensely.
I wish I could have
enjoyed
his work
a tenth of as much
as I enjoyed my smoke!

“My life is shit!”
exclaimed every one of his damned poems!
“Life, in general, is shit!”
exclaimed every one of his damned poems!
“Everybody hates me!”
exclaimed every one of his damned poems!
“And, none of it is my fault!”
exclaimed every one of his damned poems!

Fuck him.
He should probably
take up