I am
a swerving vehicle

I am
a broken and waterlogged branch

I am
a fast-approaching but unseen stop sign

I am
floating
            >down
                       >blood
                                  >stream

writing is simple.
it's like popping a pimple.
one of those nasty ones that
makes a certain clicking noise when it fractures
and another certain splatter when the indulgent ooze lands on the mirror.

writing is as easy as this.
just like taking a ****.
i could try to hold it in as long as possible
but eventually
something will leak out, the dam will burst.

writing is like getting a *******.
i'll do it where other people can see me
if i have to but
if some guy walks up and tries to strike up a conversation
i will not shake his hand.

writing is a *****.
just like that ever-present itch
in the back of your throat
when you have to cough.

writing is like getting off.
you start out slow, exploring her trenches
then quicken the pace, begin hurdling benches.
then, an hour and a half later
you're smoking a cigarette and
trying to remember what just happened.

i just tried to
adopt a metaphor
because
i was lonely and
i didn't have any
good ideas
because
it's rainy out and
i feel like lying down
but
when i got there
the page was blank
so I said
"I'll do it my **** self,"
and that's what this is.

like  just  ill  know  girl  head  words  hold  want  say  away  ­time  wasted  heart 
write  pain  id  eyes  dont  right  wrote  r­eally  think  night  left  listen  tell  thats  wont  youll  hey ­ old  youre
make  hope  start  word  drink  place  hole  lips  tr­y  got  inside  wanted  pretty  hear  hand  white  worth  paper
f­ace  sick  wish  good  things  maybe  morning  kiss  leaving  lov­e  mind  speak  look  caged  sun  small  high  oh  life  light  a­sk  forget  real  *****  heard  skin  feel  truth  blood  turn  c­omes  ear  hands  dead  dream  long  man  house  didnt  matter  w­et  perfect  tonight  work  burn  stand  touch  years  voice  ope­n  family  thing  longer
watched  pen  dance  pure  feet  youd  b­ad  care  day  alive  naked  better  gently  need  begin  sort  f­ight  does
hed  walk  thoughts  ****  trying  mouth  taking  whos­  warm  reading  revolution  shining  gods  whisper  skies  crowd­  taste  tongue  fists  sky  calling  attic  soft  cause  gets  h­elp  fun  wouldnt  home  god  met  fall  little  dark  nice  past­  best  christians  slowly  putrid  rope  used  hermit  hate  for­gotten  lungs  red  way  ready  eye  arms
bowl  held  set  brave ­ room  guess  grows  soul  tastes  microphone  window  wed  peopl­e  change  smell  lay  war  year  slots  fears  chair  holding  g­entle  lonely  talk  friends  wasnt  true  bed  glazed  breathing­  higher  ants
future  brain  believe  burst  song  laugh  wicked­  buried  seen  winning  fine  fly  leave  burning  mountain  day­s  leisure  hair  sharp  able  pet  knew  million  spend  mixing ­ saliva  hovering  syrupy  stumped  needy  feed
money  abandoned ­ betrayed  defend  egotist  fancies  wishing  zombie  standing  r­ide  pounding  cares  ****

It was daytime:

I was seperating siamese twins
at the waist
Like a government
trying to quell a rebellion;

I was reconfiguring
scarred old wooden toys
for Santa;
shining scuffed shoes--
pennyloafers with nickels
in the slots.

It was daytime:

I was decapitating
red-haired stepchildren
who had grown
sour from neglect;
removing brilliant succubi attached
to a wholesome family's
soul.

I was snacking on a
nerds rope,
washing babies mouths out
with soap,
slapping pink cheeked
toddlers on their feet.

there is an
old jewish hermit crab
spending his sunsetting years
in Boca.

after all these
years he still
finishes his beers,
but now he takes his coke
with cola.

he's gotten so old,
his heart's grown so sour,
that he believes himself
to be protestant;
remembers meeting ******
as a third-placing contestant
on Walt Disney's variety hour.

growing bored
with the Lord
he fancies the shuffleboard,
though he quickly grows tired
of being pushed over rough cement;
never invited to play--
he just came along whenever they went.

now he never thought
he'd make it this long,
he thought his heart
should have died from
being broken;
so he may not have
much longer in life,
but he'd like
to spend it wide open

so with polish for chrome
he shines up his dome
and makes haste to leave
his humble home.
he will sell his timeshare
--afer all, who cares?
and finally embrace
his freewheeling spirit;
--the West?
he'd never even been near it

well he didn't get very far at all
no, not even down passed the bar and all
when he was smashed by a car--
rims, tires, and all.