You asked me why I'm sad,
and I responded,
because I'm mad.

"When a man approaches you he must be consistent with his philosophy or else he'll be impugned by the high courts of his character."

But what if his philosphy is to be? Will they hold him?

"To be?"

Yes, to be.  To exist freely at the calling of his whims.

"Show me a man breathing that is free I will show you delusion at best or at worst deception."

To live in such a time where to err is a folly, how can this be?  How are we to exist if we do not have opportune to fail?  Risk-

"Is merely masked fear. We must learn to embrace the nature of all forms."

help me.
i think
I've forgotten
how to
breathe

I am sitting on the bed
Alone
In San Pedro
In my small studio apartment
Reading Sherwood Anderson
Opening the third beer
I started thinking about the hell
The last year brought
The loneliness
Agony
Then I started to laugh
It was so god awful
I had to laugh
Yes, im still here
******* at a beer
Waiting for greater agonies
I looked over at the stack of books
That kept me alive this year
I thought
You idiot
This was one of the most
Important years of your life
I often daydream
Of being a 250 lb
World Champion Heavyweight
Boxer

I was once asked
If I had a "nice day"

Meanwhile
Food and other goods
Stopped coming
To the port of L.A.

There are groups
Of starving
Angry men

And everything
Is not okay

Rely on yourself
Wise men say

Yet here I go...
To put on a show,
In these stanzas' rhymes I will stow,
Creating this laminar flow,
Stringing words together to form a sentence like an archipelago,
Needing this poem like bread dough,
Although I know it will never become a gateau,
Nor a chocolate Bordeaux,
It is more akin to a cheapo combo,
Housing poultry clauses building a bordello,
Impertinent this may seem like loving a guanaco,
But what you will learn from this puppet show,
*Is that not all poems have to rhyme,
In order to flow.

Coughing fits
One A.M.
Glass pipes
And bud
loosely fit words
Flowing on the the page
Like smoke out of my mouth
Nose bleeds
Two A.M.
Cut straws
White lines
Along with the blue lines
On my paper, with scribbled words
Only half legible
Panic attacks
Three A.M.
Sharp thoughts
Red lines
Words scribed in cold blood
Not entirely true
Hospital trips
Four A.M.
I.V. lines
Stomach pumps
Screamed I’m sorry's from my mothers lips
Why would you do this cutting through the air from my fathers mouth
****** noses from stress
Heart monitor
Five A.M.
Dripping line
White room
Mama were going to keep her for  awhile
Police holding my mother back
My father hanging his head in shame