Friends don't leave easy,
It takes time for them to go,
They leave like bombs though.
"Pizza is my life,
I will eat it all day long,
All the fat is mine."
Tis the American dream.
(Putin your foot down)
Son of ***** Putin,
Don't ****** Ukraine will ya,
The world was fine *****!
Obama has toast,
Romney has some grape jelly,
Lets have breakfast now.
:Haiku co-written with J.L. Johnson:
I wrote the first Haiku on my own.
I write haiku with my friend J.L. Johnson sometimes, and we made a baby eating breakfast.
More comedy haiku to come soon.
It still smells like human iron in your pool.
There's a crack in the concrete where the bullet stopped.
It still smells like human iron by the side of your pool, there's a stain.
I still can't find where that bullet went.
I always thought that your "love" of the higher life was overrated.
Nobody ever talked about how great it is to be rich as much as you did.
Even though you talked about it so quietly, most of the time.
You spoke a lot about Daisies.
I'm more of a Lillie type of person.
There are a lot of people in New York, Gatsby. Too many people in New York.
New York only needed you, Gatsby, but it looks like New York didn't want you anymore.
That's not sad though, is it?
Carraway's book is like gold. I bookmarked eight of my favorite pages in it with yellow cigarettes. I'm too afraid to smoke them.
When your old mansion was bought I expected to see you as a ghost in it,
you weren't there.
That green light across the bay isn't there anymore, it's red now.
I believe I'm sleeping in the same bedroom you once did.
You aren't one of those ghosts that haunt a house, you haunt a human concept of want.
I wish I'd never bought your house.
I'm going to tear this place down. Along with Nick's old place next door.
The memories here in these empty, furniture filled rooms, are unbearable at best.
Of course they're not my memories, but I'd be a familiar person to you if you knew me.
I smash and break things, and then retreat back into my money and vast carelessness.
Farewell Jay Gatsby.
From the perspective of the man who bought Gatsby's house after he died.
Write about socks, she said...
Write about socks, she said.
She likes socks, I guess.
Socks are cool, she said.
Socks are sock are socks nonetheless.
Socks are cotton clad elastic sacs,
They go on your feet and they can go up the ***.
(That last line was a reference to how I feel when I hear bull crap.)
Particularly my own when I'm intoxicated on life.
This poem is for a girl in New Jersey.
There's dirt underneath my socks, but there's concrete underneath hers'.
Jersey girl's wind is colder than mine, and it smells like one of the smallest states in continental America.
My Georgian wind always feels like a broken leaf.
I like my wind though.
There's a small draft between my toes here.
It sort of feels good.
That's what it's like when I don't wear socks though.
It sort of feels good.
As for Jersey girl.
She likes socks, I guess,
but I'm not one-hundred percent sure yet.
I saw a naked woman's silhouette laying in the mountains this morning.
Her skin was made of trees, and her hair made of dry creek beds.
She's was asking for a name, I think it was her's she sought.
It was then I realized that she's been laying there for a very long time, and I never noticed her until just now.
This woman's naked silhouette was manefested in flesh and blood of stone and dirt.
We walk on her like ants.
When she cries, the Earth shakes in minisquel tremors that even a needle couldn't feel.
She's begging to be found.
I found her, but she does she care?
I'll never know because she's only a few mountains standing side by side together.
and it feels like it's been so long since yesterday, but I'm okay.
It's normal I guess to feel this way.
I just miss things, even when they're right there.
I'm beginning to think that glass and time are evil.
I don't know why, but I just do now.
Time never stops moving and it scares me. Glass keeps me away from things like unfiltered air I'm addicted to.
It's been months since I've last been in love with someone.
I don't care though, I guess.
Everyone becomes alone sometimes, but I'm not lonely yet.
If I forgot what the sun was, would I be too afraid to meet it again?
I can't stay in this room forever.
It's got time, and it's got glass.
I hate those things.
I think I' am just really tired.
It's Midnight, Eastcoast.
I wrote this now.
I need sleep, and I need prayer.