I'm in a cool group.
To stay on top
of my writing, and to
promote and market
my poetry, I often
publish online.
If Lord Byron could
hear that.

In this place that
I belong,
I have deadlines.
I procrastinate until
the very last day, and then
scribble some ******
lines and get angry with
myself for putting the
writing off.

I have a couple of
weeks before I need
to write a sonnet or villanelle.
I'm getting anxiety.
It's not producing the
desired effect of
hard work or discipline.
No
Not that.
It is getting me thinking.
That is sometimes productive,
and usually comical.

I'm thinking about
the 15 months I've
been sober.
For many years,
I was miserable.
Drinking and writing.
Writing and drinking.
Holding the bottle of
***** to my shivering
lips to get the last
spider of liquid.
My clothes smelled of
decay and cowardice, and
everything tasted like
rotten meat.

Now, I have a beautiful
maple desk that my three
cats like to sleep
on while I write
poems about
procrastination and sobriety.
Such fuzzy black miracles.
They twitch as they
dream of fish and catnip,
and just maybe they
dream about writing a
sonnet for me.
We are all
addicted to something.

Living on the Scandinavian streets have
humbled her.
No Christmas cards with
a 20 spot anymore.
No trust fund from
Mom and Dad.
All the money vanished like
the last spider of *****,
like a dropped bottle of beer.
She could go to a
shelter by herself,
but she chooses
life on the
streets in the
brutal winter to be
with her Swedish boyfriend.
Love is lunacy--sometimes frozen.
Two dead friends last year on
a mad moonlit night.
Human icicles on
the Iowa City streets.

One time while drunk,
her and I stole
the neighbor's canoe.
We had her little
black dog with us.
I dubbed him,
Senator Ted Kennedy;
probably because we
were all drunks,
(not the dog) I don't think...
We wrestled the canoe into
the Iowa River, and
immediately proceeded to
tip it over.
The Canoe sank like
a bad bet by Hunter S. Thompson.
We could've easily drowned, but we
laughed our ***** off,
choking and splashing,
except for Teddy, who swam
for Boston.

Down in the town of Mayonnaise
Spread out along the country side
Mayor Egg White came to proclaim
They soon would be fighting for their lives

Sandwiched between two armies
The tribes of Ham on Rye
Everyone must battle
So, bring along your spoons and knives

They mustard up the courage
Feeling they were in a pickle
The town of Mayo was spread thin
Until their hero showed, Sir Pumpernickel

Who used the magic of Miracle Whip
A bit tangy to the taste
But after all did the trick
Laying all of Mayonnaise's enemies to waste

Where the town brought out their knives and spoons
And soon cleaned up the mess
The Miracle Whip did what it was meant to
Giving the town of Mayonnaise its much needed rest

I'm listening to the house ,
the popping of the joists ,
the groans from years of delapidation . The arguing
with local foundations .

Age has its benefits in the forms of doors as they no longer stay moored to the walls but swing in indecision like the fools who stand in perpetual obsolesence .

Where then do my thoughts propel my rudderless oblivion ?
My angst , the thumb in many dikes , leaves me as powerless before the mass of my desperation .

How dare the Ghosts of daylight leave me marooned in the shadow of shadows .

I am confused and challenged by the hidden agendas and secret subpoenas of an alien race of thought .

And were I capable of burying the haunting images , would they not
sprout from my seeds of discontent and flourish
yet greater than before ?

. . . evidently so .

It's hard being sober
It's hard staying clean
Hard making a living
If you know what I mean

Hard loving your neighbor
Harder loving yourself
Could you do me a favor
And go bother somebody else

It's hard to smile in certain crowds
And not tell the truth sometimes out loud
It can be hard to make a move
When you're not sure of what to do

It can be hard to do what's right
In everybody's sight
Hard to extend the hand of kindness
To those you do not like

It's hard to know when to let go
Be it people or worrying
Hard at times to give up hope
And other times a simple thing

It's hard being a witness
In a world that's part of you
Hard like nobody's business
If you want to know the truth

I'm not a big fan of flies,
but I don't hate them.
I don't really like pies,
but I can make them.

I love my life, and can
fake it when I don't.
I could go on with
this poem, but it's
the end, so I won't.

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?

the
cause of atrophy,
government policy.

and about the football
yeah!
what about the football?

did England deserve to win,
did Italy?
and now
someone's telling me
to
put a sock in it
probably
a disgruntled fan.

I think Jesus had a hand in it
and
God put ten grand on it
oh! man did it
****
but
the best of luck to Italy
next time
we'll win.