I wear my paper hat sing these silly songs

but she doesn't want to laugh anymore

whistle like a fool tell another joke

but she just doesn't want to laugh anymore

there was a time when I was the king of making her smile

she would wiggle and giggle for hours on end

now i would be lucky if I were more amusing than spoiled cauliflower

and she just doesn't want to laugh anymore

I pretend to be a stripper and shake my little ***

but she just doesn't want to laugh anymore

scribble silly pictures and make fun of the unruly cat

but she just doesn't want to laugh anymore

no longer funny I have the comedic status of paint

all her friends make her laugh the media makes her laugh

but I, I am damp socks

and she doesn't laugh anymore........

The world is the word as the bird that flies
Is the bird that dies
Or the man that lies
When words get burned and his sentence turned
By which he learned
There is no I
But I is us and we are you
And you are just another U
Like underling and uninformed
But usurp and you will be scorned
So word it in a quiet voice
If words should be your only choice

The abomination that is the human mind

twists and turns, spews and shouts

as worms in filth

or words on paper

crawling and consuming

evolving and discharging

imbibing knowledge and purging perception

letters illustrate products of chemical reactions

neurotransmitters conspire with memory and ideology

excreting dopamine and epinephrine by the milliliters

no one can read what is safe

no one is safe from what they read

poetry is a bowel movement of the mind….

Boy is born
Boy is made of silk gentle to the world
never crossing lines prepubescent pearl

Boy grows into man
Man is made of steel callous iron ore
huffing cans of power behind a wall of war

Man grows old
Old is made of scars topography of time
shedding timeless wisdom in arthritic pantomime

Old succumbs to death
Death is made of nothing heaven, hell nor rot
just floats their like an atom or something you forgot......

Write to her that little snail
    in letters slow and sleek
an icky twist of words and wit
   will keep you for a week

I swear the machine is the culprit
It explains the sore bones and sleepless nights
from the moment your fist meets the black button
before the ink of time has dried
it grips you in caste iron clamps
inserts its ******* tube into your spine
and drains your humanity
gorging on it like famished swine

Through an ocean of searing hot oil
and pummeled flour
it laughs at you
a sordid laugh stinking of raw meat
amplified by static voices over an intercom
each beep penetrating with the force of a power drill
please hold for a moment
I've seemed to have spilled my brain onto this greasy floor
let me scoop it onto some rice for you
there,
an original chop.

She hides in pockets of flesh in my gums
I can taste her in the morning when I spit
at night I can feel her swimming in an ocean of mouthwash
In sleep she oozes onto my pillow
moistening the dusty fabric under my cheek
When shes really playful
she will wiggle herself into my cerebellum
and dance furiously with my dreams
or gently sing lullabies when my heart wont let me sleep
when the world and its filth have commandeered my hope
she is there to brush away the dirt with untarnished hands
she is my religion she is my ******
without her I am sick
a smoldering heat of black matter and fungi
she is antibacterial soap on my soul
Lysol wipes to my tarred lungs
with one whiff I am cleansed of debris
she saturates the oxygen in my blood
she resides in my abdomen
I can feel her in my kidneys.