Why is it that this ****** up
world labels all the creative people
crazy?
They do it all the time.
John Nash
Vincent Van Gogh
Poe
Sylvia Plath
Michelangelo
Edvard Munch
Fransisco Goya
Hemingway
Kerouac
H.P. Lovecraft
Virginia Woolf
This isn't an exhaustive list.
I think it is complete
*******.
I think Artists see the world
differently, so it's easier
to call them crazy, then to try
and understand why they
see the world differently.
As long as the world keeps
doing this...they can go
**** themselves with a
copy of On the Road,
and a tube of Cerulean blue
paint.

Being polite or kind  was
never an aspiration of hers'.
And the level of
selfishness she displayed
bordered on narcissism.
When we used to go
for walks, Tulips and
Daffodils wilted when she
passed by.

And those eyes...
I've seen more
soul
in the eyes of
a dead gold fish.
In the arena of
cruelty, she gave Jezebel
and Nero a run for
their money.

The sun hid
behind clouds when it
saw her face,
and small animals shrieked when
they heard her footsteps.

I chose to write
this in the past tense
because that's what she is...
ancient history.

Back in my bone crushing
poverty ridden days,
I collected cans for nickels;
enough cans meant ***** and
smokes for the day.
one morning I came across
an empty can of beer, it said,
Dead Irish Poet Beer.
i thought, how odd is this?
Just then, a car blew by blaring
a Van Morrison song.
I thought, ah yes, but he's alive.
I didn't take the can for the nickel.
I left it to its green garbage
can grave.

Strangely enough, I
almost missed the
birth of my three year
old daughter.
I have never written much for
popularity or trends; this one
is no exception.
My girlfriend and I
had been separated most
of her pregnancy.
I stabilized the last three months and
was able to
travel the 50 miles
as often as needed to
be there for the birth.

The night before she went
into labor, that morning, she acted
crazier than usual--passive aggressive,
and cruel biting remarks.
Finally, she just came out with it,
"I looked at your phone while you were sleeping,
and you have been watching ****.  I'm taking you
back to Mason City and you can just miss
the birth of your daughter.

Luckily, we only made it a few blocks before
she went in to labor.
But, she hasn't let me
live it down.
And I hoped like hell,
as I looked down at my
little angel,
I sure the **** hope
that she never becomes
a **** star.

There's ether in
the cloud at the
bottom of the hill.
Birthdays come and
go,
and they seal the deal.
Feelings change with
the wind,
but time is real.
It's a thief,
and it likes to steal.

I know they look like sunrises and sunsets, but I was painting you.
When I painted all the rivers that lead to the oceans, and the glorious starry nights, and the flowers; the sublime orchids and the tender roses.
In the end
and from the beginning,
I was painting you.

There’s nothing like a
writer when he hits
his stride.
He’s like a horse in the
homestretch,
thundering to the
finish line.
He’s like a dog in
a fight that has his
opponent by the throat .

He is hope for the
*****.
He’s the lock on
the door.
He’s the power in
the ****.
He’s the fossil in  
the rock.

When he pounds out the
word and the line,
he’s like a lion roaming
the Serengeti, or like
the guy with
the whip and
the chair that
makes the silly looking
circus bear do what
he wants.

He’s the snow on
Christmas morning.
He’s the heart in
the newborn baby.
He’s the master and
the world’s his slave.
He’s the force that
makes the river flow.
He’s the tree for
the monkey
he is dope for
the ******.
He is wisdom for the flunky.

He is Don Quixote to
Dulcinea and
Peter to Christ.
He is wings for the
Dodo bird and
claws for the cat.
He’s the rage in the night.
He’s the first light of sunrise.
He’s the dew on the grass
he’s the sail and the
mass on an unsinkable boat.

It’s unthinkable that he would  
do anything else but
write.
He is sight for the  
blind man, he’s a tongue for
the dumb.
He’s a throne for the king.
He’s what makes the robins
sing at the first sight
of spring.

He’s the ring in the bell.
He’s cold water in hell.
He’s the fire, not the smoke.
He’s the castle not
the mote.
He’s the forest
and
the trees.
He’s the bumble in  
the bees.
He’s the rumble from the seas.
He is life not death.
He’s the pulse and
the breath.

He’s the makeup on a clown.
He is sound for
the deaf.
He is  
bereft of nothing when
the
scandalous
sun sets.

I like
my shoes; they are
the only pair
I have.
I've walked miles in
them.
They have
got me around for years.
My shoes are
falling apart.
They should have
quit on me a long
time ago.
Strangely enough,
people compliment
me on them.
They don't see
that the soles are
worn thin, or that they
smell like cat **** and
rotting flesh.
They don't see the
blood stains on
the canvas and the
piece of broken glass stuck
in the heel.
Nope,
they just say,
'Nice kicks;
they look good on you.'
I can't afford
another pair right now,
and even if I could,
I wouldn't spend
the money on them.
No, I like my
shoes, even with
all their imperfections.
They have seen
a thousand sunsets and
carried me away
from many heartbreaks.
My shoes have
run
walked
and sauntered through
snow
rain
and all kinds of ****.
My shoes have
saved me and
betrayed me.
And they have
tasted every type
of ***** known
to man.
When I'm dead and
gone
I hope someone
burns
my shoes and throws
the ashes in
that long lonesome
river, under the bridge,
where men
live and fight
and dream.