As I stood there waiting. Waiting for something happen.
I found it rather hard to decide. What had me mesmerised?
Was it her laugh. Or the glimmer in her eyes.
In all the time I took to decide. She found someone other.
I still stand there waiting. Waiting for something to happen.

Who am I?
Who am I?!
I am the one who sleeps naked
I am the one who sneezes two times after I awake every morning
I am the one who ****** for at least a minute straight
I am the one who measures my water by the quart
I am the one who cracks his spine, his neck, his knuckles, his knees, his ankles, his toes and his writs
I am the one who can’t breathe through his left nostril as good as the right one
I am the one with an oddly large tongue
I am the one who the good lord has mockingly withheld a pair of full eyebrows from
I am the one who put ketchup on everything he eats within reason
I am the one who can play bass, some piano and four chords on the guitar
I am the one who loves The Doors unconditionally
I am the one you will see attempting to eat fast food and then shortly after ***** it all back up and wasting my money
I am the one who does not wear undrwear
I am the one who picks his nose, his teeth and his ears
I am the one who is insecure about his image
I am the one who is horrible at math
I am the one who works out two hours at a time
I am the one who will roll you joints, pack a bowl and get you higher than you ever been
I am the one who will do a shot with you then another and another
I am the one who will **** freely anywhere
I am the one who lights incense
I am the one who searches for answers from history, philosophy, music, literature, metaphysics, psychedelics and art
I am the eccentric expressionist who writes in poetic prosaic streams of consciousness
I am the one who tries to sing
I am the one who aims to sleep for eight hours but never does
I am the one who needs two cups of coffee and then a cup of espresso
I am the one who looks for enlightenment, progress and success and spiritual, physical and mental healing
I am the one who doesn't give a ****
I am the one who cares deeply
I am the one who confides in his own contradictions
I am a complete person
And I am the one who is ending this drawn out repetitive poem that’s been in my mind for months
But I leave my readers with this question...who are you?

It’s been awhile since I wrote something worthwhile

A moment since I sat down and told you my thoughts,

Thoughts that came and went,

thoughts that haunted me ever since.



I think I created a space where a part of myself

can think, while another part of myself, stops thinking

to think about you.



This may sound confusing,

but this is just me,

hopefully you’ll see that too.

Sometimes I feel like there actually is a place for me in this world
And other days I feel like that place is six feet underground

Can I show you how beautiful you are? Can I take out the old photo albums and push my index finger into the faces, the places, and seas? I want to peel back the plastic and remove the square photographs from their sticky setting. I'm alluding to ideas that exist more formidably on the internet- there are no paper photographs, no sticky settings, there aren't even faces in the numbers; it's only ever been you or me.

Some of my things are crooked. The strings don't work, the wires are twisted and make the sounds all come out funny. There's a strange buzzing everywhere, it's like Mickey's gray cloud, a cloud Koopa throwing spiked shells from Park Avenue beach to Montrose street. Everything is quiet, consuming, unassuming and still recalcitrant. I'm showing nothing to nobody. Coaxing storm systems and netting foul play and ***** tricks, with my pants around my ankles or my fly unzipped.

I'm stinking of this stuff. These sudorific crevices on the insides of my thighs. I'm more or less always pacing. Rocking. Rolling. Small room I'm living room, cadavers I stuff my skinny fingers inside of- cold, wet hollow places I'm seeking skin covered gods in. I'm craving tastes and flavors. I'm looking at these pictures of me, of my face and the clothes I wore, the people that knew me. Where have I disappeared to? Every place that I went, every condition of my humanness has gone. Five minutes past my certainty, squirting hot molten magma from my ****, my lips, and my fingertips. Hysterical thoughts and homily. I want just a hello. I want just a hello.