He asked my advice.
Eighteen years old, and 
no fire in his eyes.
No fight, no spark.
Just fluff, and
nonsensical darkness.

When I was your age,
it was all
sunshine
vaginas, and
*******.
I drank daily
and painted with
blood.
I drank so
much, I ******
myself once a week.
I lived in the
river and ******
beautiful mermaids.
What seems to be
your problem George?

He said he was a ******,
and that he was lazy, and had
no self-esteem.

I said,
why do you always wear
yellow?
maybe, you should do
something with your
life; join a club, or
protest something.
You look like a
giant daffodil.

I'm lazy though,
I don't want to do
anything.

Well, I said,
that could be why
your self-esteem is low.

Try reading, writing,
or taking a walk
in the woods.
It worked for
Frost and Thoreau.
And hey George,
if you don't motivate
yourself, you will
never get laid.
Women take work.

I don't like work,
he said.

How are you going to
support yourself?
Do you want to
live in homeless shelters
or under bridges?
It's no life for
a kid like you George.

You should do something
about that mop of  red
hair you got.
You are white, and you
have an afro.
You look like a chunky
Ronald Mc Donald.
Maybe, try fast food or
a carnival.

I need *****, he says.

George, ***** is great,
but it isn't going to just
show up one magical
night while you live
in your mom's
basement
and play video games.

Forget about women for
now and read some
Bukowski
Hunter
Hamsun,
even Tolstoy.
Listen to some
******* music.
Try the greats,
Mozart
Beethoven
Sublime, and
The Grateful Dead.

I don't like music,
and reading
is boring.

Well, then my advice
is to 
watch more
TV.
I can tell you like
television.

Alright, George,
I have some writing
to do, I will see you
around.

I went back to my
room,
sat down, and
thought,
now, what the hell
did I do with that
hard
boiled egg?

**** to
some
is
erotica to
others.

A feast to
me
maybe
a snack
to you.

We see things
differently
through filtered
eyes,
with varying
experiences.

Open
minds
think beyond
good and
evil.

I woke up too early.
It was still dark out.
I tried to read some
Hunter S. Thompson, but
it made me thirsty,
not a drop in the  
place.
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.

A few nights ago my
girlfriend and
I got into it.
She bit me and
scratched my face.
We were drunk on  
wine from Argentina.
The coffee I’m  
drinking doesn’t taste
right.
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.

In the wee hours of
the morning
I decided
to shave my head.
It took four razors, but
I finally got the
job done.
I looked in the
mirror,
and a stranger peered
back at me;
a head like Gandhi
and a face like Marciano.
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.

Yesterday
my girlfriend and I went  
on a shoplifting spree.
I stole coffee,
a couple of books,
a hat, denture glue, and
a **** ring.
She’s a much better thief than
me.
She took
razors, two tapestries, laundry soap and  
trash bags, makeup, shampoo
and coffee that doesn’t taste funny.
As the sun gently
kisses the horizon
and begins to bathe
Iowa City in golden light,
I wish I were in
Puerto Rico.

Tomorrow morning
I have to be in
court.
A month ago I stole
some wine and got caught.
My day of reckoning has
almost arrived.
I should just get a
fine that I will
never pay, but
with these things,
one never knows.
The judge could be  
hung over or constipated
or worse yet, he could have
read my poetry.
I really wish I were in  
Puerto Rico.

I'm lonely as a
dancing ghost in
empty Halls,
waltzing through
memories of a
Banquet set for
many, yet no one arrived.

I long for
her on winter nights
when Christmas is a lie.

There goes Vincent with
his jagged sky, and
ragged beard.
His cobalt blue are
stained with the glue that should
hold us all together,
but it doesn't.
His sunflowers are lost
on humanity.
When we can't hold
on to what we pretend to love,
we **** it...
Usually in small
treacherous ways,
like apathy or
arrogance.

Beneath these
satin sheets,
my memory
flutters like
little birds on
indigo nights.

Folded wings
rest in my
mind's eye.
Fingers itch with
visions,
Delta of Venus,
orchids in bloom,
wet with the
sticky dew.

I grip my
virility
and begin
a slow
waltz...
It feels so
good.

Here comes another
classic case of
writer's block.
**** soft,
I spew
across the
white pages.
Maybe age is
catching up
with me.
Time has been
a friend,
but I'm only as
good as my last poem.
I long for the days
when songs filled
my heart, where every
part of me smelled
the rain and the
wet dogs, and the
streets of Spain.
The pain was always
fodder, the joy, the sadness
the madness of love and
*** and passion.
The rancid anger and rage
became the words of
a sage when I broke
out the notebook.

Not tonight though,
I will wait for the
******* and the blood
to simmer in
the red dot on the
white snow.
Patiently waiting for
the hemorrhaging of
the soul.