tiny stack of books
glaring into the wasted hours
I've spent without them.

Rosenfeld locked the door
And Richards angled a
Lamp to burn fluorescence
Thru my retinas.
"Here" says Rose "a poem
About car parts rusting
Thru the apocalypse"
"Too abstract" a Richie
Retort, "keep it to the
Real. Write about berries"
"No no no, that's *******
Ridiculous" cried Rosen.
I could feel a pen
In palsied hand.
They wanted ink
On paper.
So I wrote words I
Couldn't see,
Etching adverbs
On a neon sheet
Before an electric
Sun.


They had me in that room
For 48 hours
To write the poem in
Front of you.
Surely they could've
Arrested a better
Poet.

sit and chill a minute.
we all got the time
to waste.
light a blunt and **** it.
savor the flavors, swirling
smoke taste.
indica,
sativa,
anything to please ya//
knockin back,
bowl pack,
I succeed in drawbacks.
if I lived a life too real
I'd lose it fast, got no appeal.

our breath is numbered.
take it deeply, count to three
one less we can hold.

looking at the lessons I've learned
chasing dragonflies, collecting mud between toes
like the mushed crust of the earth,
falling in and out of love like rivers
there was no definite answer.
there was the spirit of wisdom
without wisdom
and a cyclical flow of endings
where buds never blossomed.
but still they're here with me
being and not being
in the back of my mind
and the tips of my toes.

she's been waiting
a long time.
it will call,
and it will call.

I smoke marijuana
to reason with my head
drink a quart of liquor
to get me in bed
yet thru the miasma
a drunkard's word is true
so believe it when I'm slurring
the vowels in "I love you"

I want to be eaten by bliss.
I want to feel the grind of its teeth
crushing my bones to dust.

I'll trade faces
with anyone that
will have me

I hang on that eldest birch
last leaf of autumn asleep thru the winter
stuck with the spear of my stem in the branch
my root weakens
wind howl deafens
I will awaken dead in the spring

let me encapsulate myself
in how many people I've ******
and who I am currently
*******.

steppin in steppin out
both feet in the river
gotta make it down somehow
gonna sink or gonna swim down (2)
reach for moss if it's dry
pull myself out of it
take a better look around
gonna make it down somehow

Two dollars for two
Cups of black coffee, bass thumpin,
Saturday morning.

I've held on to you
for too long.
I won't write another
poem about
it.

drunk on townshend and happiness
I don't know if I will ever stop dancing

With all the love ive given
You'd think I'd save some
For myself