South Korea
has modern things
on top of ancient dreams -
too quickly layered.

Strange disconnect
in generations;
rice paddy
revelations -

New traditions
steeped
in desperation.

Crazy chick that I work with,
How are you today? Calm the **** down.
You’re a mess - not that anything’s wrong with that.
But you’re in my workspace, which is not your workspace.
Also, your mouth babble, eye gestures and body jerkins seem
To indicate that you wish to communicate; alas, could you
Coherently convey an idea, who would want to receive it?
Please vacate the workspace and return to yourspace.
Have a nice day.

Your poetry is daffy; your mind
Is gooey taffy. You rhyme
Like Seuss on ****** –
Your grammar makes disaster
of your ludicrous expounding.
Those rhymes are cheese,
And couplets, please.
You couldn’t find a foundling.

I can't
decide
a freaking thing.
My ears ring.
And orders bring
fresh squeaky hell,
a ting-ting bell,
laughing
at my silly
dreams.

I am evolving
into the me
I will be.

But am I
making,
or being
made?

Most people don't see the fences
and barriers and borders -
I've crossed them.
Earth is a thousand prison camps.

(This one is rough, wanted to try and write a poem tonight in one sitting.)

the unexamined life
is not worth
texting. Stop selling
your inadequacy, instagraming
packaged, processed, stylized
banality, like a ******
miming painting
to the long pedestrian
line at the Louvre.

I love you.

I said it. Now you.

Do you love me, too?

Weird how life comes down to this.

A simple thing.

Loneliness, or love.

Rinds, or rings.

Dregs, or doves.

I only know I love.

You.

Poetry is dumb, like my thumb in your

Ear — I could have said ‘rear.’

Or my tongue

In your eye,

See, signifying

Blindness. I’m waxing poetic here.

Ink impressions

On paper,

That can’t be touched,

Or felt. Or smelt. And don’t get me started about the taste,

And how long it takes to eat a poem.

So, conclusion, thumb, ear, tongue, eye, eat a poem,

It’s ineffable.

We are going off to war,
we are sitting by no more;
we are smashing skulls baby,
killing the enemy.

This is how the world is made;
this is how the rent is paid.
Grab your gun and follow me,
baby, lets make casualties.

Those with souls can stay behind,
and moan and groan and hide their eyes -
that is why we charge ahead,
baby, front towards enemy.

There's a place for me
in a field of Bluebonnets
under a Pecan Tree, with
Texas Longhorn lowing
to passerbys,
and mockingbirds flitting
about cloudless, grand skies.

The zombie couldn’t drink the tea,
His hand was shaking, he couldn’t see
The edge of the cup, and he couldn’t bring
It to his mouth. He couldn’t feed
Himself the cookies from the tray,
And I still wonder, to this day,
Why he ever sat down –
He didn’t say.