After the party
on the floor
popped balloons, confetti
and the birthday cake
your mom made.

Knock. Knock.
No joke.
For you know who's there.
It's the fire breathing
sickle swinging
cleaning crew
with mops and shovels
to gather and remove
what remains
of your last breath.

If you like surface poetry
you've come to the right place
(like the title says)
unless, of course, you're the type
who ignores what someone tells them

even when you know better.

Like stealing your way
into a forbidden palace
where everyone makes love
to everyone.

So you stay there playing.
Exhilarated. Feeling **** good.
Hand-me-down earbuds
firmly pressed listen for truth.
Ancient sonar echoes for depth.

Not a hint of shame.

I plan for the future
but in all honesty
my life has unfolded
like some unforeseen
magic trick.

I wish I had it.
Instead my words grind
in a windmill built on a ****
in Amsterdam.
They grind and grind
far, far, far from here
near the sea of flowing words
swimming freestyle
to flowing hearts
flowing minds.

Not jealous, mind you,
more like knowing
I'm a grinder grinding
all the while admiring
the soulful flowing words
scribed by the best of you.

Who am I
to deserve such sights,
to witness this splendor?

Thank you for trusting me
with this color, this light.

Thank you for reminding me
what lives behind the dark.

Whoever, wherever,
whatever you are.

Inked-up
poets come.
Finish inside me.
Swim in me.
Taste me. From
7 to eleven
slurp me
in the convenience store
where some
wrestle to buy
this or that
I remain
gift wrapped
waiting

for your
good stuff.