This something of
a doctor once
asked me to
write a list.
He leaned back
in his squeaking,
worn leather
chair.
Entwined his fingers
behind
his greasy
half balding head.
Exposing the
wet stains on the
arm pits of
his creased button
shirt as if they weren't
there.

He thought he was so
smart ,so superior
with his framed
accomplishments
littered all
over his institutional
colored office walls.


I sat across from
him degreeless and
self educated,
therefore a failure
in this sham of a
world they have
created.

He thought
I was dumb with my
crude prison tattoos,
police record
and noticeable
stammer.

I took hold of the
sharpened number 2
and for the briefest of moments
seriously considered
jamming the lead filled
pencil deep into his
razor burned neck.

I stared at the
yellowing
stains beneath his
flabby arms
and couldn't help but smile.
I smiled as I put
point to paper
and began to write
his stupid list.

There's a pistol hungry
for vengeance and heavy in my
pocket urging me forth.
A lazy monkey
who insists I carry
it's burden.
A mind so full of
tragedies that
even nightmares
steer clear.

A broken heart that
needs to stay broken.
Shattered hopes that
refuse to dream.
Tattoos that have forgotten
their meanings.
Junkies who need
their junk.

Death raiding ravens
circling overhead.
A black cat
who saved my life
more than once.
A girl I love
who will never
love me.
******* doctors
with **** smelling arm pits.
Bad kids who know they're
bad.

Stray dogs in search
of a home.
Dead minds cheering
for ball chasing men.
Working men
who know nothing
of the world but
work.


Broke and addicted
writers looking for
a casket to rest in.
An empty grave
that longs
to be filled.

That letter I wrote and
still haven't sent.
And a date with
a dealer
therefore this   
list is
now done.