The road is a ledger, a
white line down the centre
two margins for error,
lubricating *** holes which
resemble ink wells, occasional
notes, figures, no doubt are
percentages, even lit up at
night for those who work late.

****, Im on the wrong side,
back after 20 years in France,
someone just called me be a
Fukin Eejit, perhaps it's the
Pixie Hat, no way of knowing
I was Irish, me eers is hid!

there on the road ahead.

looking toward me with dead eyes.

mouth open.



i could not stop

nor swerve

for sunday traffic.



slowing i gently made sure the body

was not touched by wheels.



straddling.



as did the car behind

me.



after i stopped to post a letter

and stayed a while to look

at the fields around

me.

i see the flyer at starbucks

"are you caucasian?
without mental health
and drug problems?"

wow
i don’t know the answer to any of these questions
is a jew a caucasian?
is the occasional naked, ****-slamming drunken rampage
a drug problem?
as for mental health
i’m a deadbeat poet and unpopular pop musician
i’ve got a job fighting death and boredom
and i just changed my facebook password to "eat ****"
my frustrations have driven weaker souls to homicide
but are these PROBLEMS?

At midday we present
no shadows, because it
is for the time, beings.

i saw it sailing by

at the night watch

clouds arranged dramatic.

let it go,

oh let it go,

let it sail free

I held it swiftly
and swiftly it passed
like a car crash

and the causalities were many
like a box of Good & Plenty
white and pink capsules

those oval rascals all jounce together
unravel like a sweater
caught on a hook

I am
by yesterday
hung on every word you said

like clothes stretched on the line
in wintertime
frozen stiff in place

because they’d rather be there
then tucked away
when will I cease

like a flaccid *****
I can’t enter anything
here I go again

This is too much.

Surely, I did something
To deserve things as such.

A lazy, glassy-eyed ****.
You haven't kissed me open-mouth
In well over 15 months.

The good guy routine
Well, it isn't a routine...
But I artfully mask my anger with
******* at night
And in the mornings caffeine.

I imagine
That when you look at me
I'm less man than machine.

But knowing me,
I'll continue to flog myself
For these crimes I haven't committed.
And maybe one day the gavel will fall
And I'll finally be ever-acquitted.