This One Time,
                        I stripped naked
        and ****** my couch.
This other time
  I threw a copy of The Fountainhead
at an RV moving at 64 miles an hour
  I have a tree
            In the foothills
    named Clementine Valencia Jeff
  and the same day, me and John
made a religion with Adam based
       on cloud formations
      You see, I'm a weird guy
         I got
           I got problems
      I see a therapist
           Her name's Rhonda
        She likes Batmaa aaaaan
     She sees people worse than me
        but recognizes I got problems
     and she
         she tries to help
       cause
            cause I got problems
      and the
         and the problem
                   with having problems
         is
           is function
   You
         You can't do anything
  You live to defy expectation
  And - and it's really hard
     to get into college
    You never really get accepted
       and and
            and even if
        even if you do you
            you
               you never really accept that
  It's hard out there for a freak
I get lost within my own
       ridiculous quandaries
  You feel like you're not
    you're not built right
      like something's wrong
  and you just punch and
    and kick and
       and destroy
   Whatever feels des-
           destroy able because it gives
   purpose
     Bu
       But I finally think I -I
               found my mantra
My my
       My compass thing
   My map whatever


   It has the same number of
letters of something very very dear
     to me
   and
      and that holds meaning
  I
    I wrote it on the back of my door
      my door
  and- and I sprayed it on a
           shirt
  I actually got it from a videogame with
   with a
    with Ayn Randian themes
   It's religious
  and
   and every night now
before I go to sleep
     I
       I- I look into Neil Patrick Harris's
        eyes
   feel the warmth of my wonderful blanket
  admire some handiwork
    read about serial arson
close my eyes and tell myself
     She is our Salvation

Bukowski

your
seductive
stinking
honesty
makes my sanitized life
a lie

(poem dedicated to the late Charles Bukowski)

The world
Knock knock
The economy
Knock
**** ***** up
I say
Knock knock knock

The girl's made of glass
Her world's made of twigs
When you knock-knocked
The damage that it did

She doesn't like the Kit-Kat
She doesn't like your cat
She doesn't like the government,
the business, the school, the tax
She has a few cute things she likes
She likes herself sometimes
But a little girl with crazy views
Like her
Fragile
Will die

Knock

writing a poem (on my iPod: feels like cheating)
while greyhounding back homeward---
(weekend red stripes in guelph & waterloo)
it hasn't much t'do with anything,
save perhaps this mournful banjo
in my ear and grey toronto
and the plateglass houses of the
great rich masses set back on
manicured hills. . .
                            . . . it is overcast again
---tho t'always is on busfilled
                     travel sundays---
when you've nothing else to do but
leave all the weekend's joy in the dusts.
preachers screamin' in fastidious belled churches
while my head splits (from th'very thought)

and O the women i leave behind!
the tight snaky barworn dresses,
smudges (lipsticks)
on ***** cranberries ...
                                          ah! (ah!)
all the numbers and names half-collected,
waiting for next trip down
---or maybe just black oblivion.

. . .
but enough of cloudy thoughts!
i have Spring and all (WCW)
waiting in the pack &
                                      afterall

                                  ... poetry

is the only thing of any importance.
the gardens of bedroom bliss
the freckled map of womankind
the rippling cascade of golden hair
must wait...