I am a poet
Hear me roar.
Hear my mind run
and race in madness.
Hear my soul burn
and crackle.
Hear my tears drop
into your hand.
Hear my pen scrape
away old ideas caked
onto your mind.
Hear my laughter spring forth into
your
bright future.
I am a poet.

I'm gonna wear
my weathered cardigans
and be swallowed by the pack
of Seattle commutes
with my vinyl records in one hand,
a guitar in the other,
and a backpack full of
J. Kerouac and C. Bukowski
and R. Adams and L. Cohen.

I gonna live
off of the San Francisco Bay saltwater
and the bummed cigarettes outside
of bars that play nicotine music
to my ears.

I'm gonna sleep
on the ground in front of cookie-cutter houses
with their fence posts painted white.
I'll feel my psyche strum its last chord
and soon I'll be gone
without a sound.

I'm gonna die
in a new town where nobody knows my name.
I'll be a Chicago artist
full of New York poetry,
a Great Britain romantic
full of Alameda Victorian architecture,
or a Nebraska idiot
full of Midwest ambition.

Suppose to teach not tell us that people like me are disgusting
Under my skin and I feel like lashing out to her but I don't
Because I know better, I might say a word or two to My Principal though

I lust for you
to think of me
daydream
of your scribbled greetings
of your silent longing,
your thoughts of me
(thinking of you)

thirsty
for some confession
of truth
something drastic, something new

in this stagnant springtime

colours, bright and harsh
yet they fall upon me
oh so dull
the wind avoids my skin
walking in a vacuum
so constantly numb
so ardent for
a crack in
the continuity

it subdues
any passion
even my hatred
for routine

letting me subconsciously
slip
into the nightmare
of the "american dream"
the steady pretending
this enmeshment
it infects
the very seams of
my existence

Pandas are *******
No doubt about it
All they ever do
Is sleep, eat and sit

It seems that the zoo
Is their native habitat
Sleep eat sit, sleep eat sit
Until they get fat

With their mickey mouse ears
And their love of mascara
Oh sure they make great toys
But so does a llama

You can't ride a Panda
You can't teach them to fetch
And where d'you buy bamboo
If you want one as a pet?

They're no good at mousing
They don't never forget
They don't even purr
They need help having ***

No, pandas are *******
There's no doubt in my mind
A less de-pandable pet
You're unlikely to find.

I knew a man once who could read the trees
He'd stand in a field with nothing on
And look at them for hours
(He couldn't talk to flowers)
But he would pour over every branch
Trace every knot and feel their bark
He translated a sycamore for me once
But oaks and beeches were his favourite
He said he just preferred their type.
The elbow bends told him of seasons
The trunk's tilt told the prevailing winds
Their denseness in relation to their neighbours
Told him all manner of gossipy things.
The colours and the hues told of the soil
The moulds and lichens the local fashions
He'd tell you if they'd ever been frightened
By hippies, chainsaws, axes or lightening.
And as I looked on, I realised something
As I read his naked body with no clothes
This man was obviously a stark raving lunatic.

As the magic morning coffee beans take hold,
My thoughts turn into windows
That sprout like flowers or weeds
Across my screen until by lunch time
There’s sixteen or seventeen or eighteen
Links and tabs dividing me
Into minute long thoughts
That grab me for a second
Before being blown away
By a swish of fingers
On the trackpad
I can’t
Keep
Track.
Of…
Help.
I…
I need another coffee.