Sitting Indian style in the most
overlooked room in the house
for innovation on top of the
washing machine as the towels
transition into the spin cycle.
Waiting for the blankets and
bedsheets to dry that the dog
****** on the night before.
Surrounded by posters
of villainous comic book
characters and not much
else to look at other than
cat clumps in the litter box
while listening to the
therapeutic avant-grade
compositions of Don Van Vliet.
Contemplating my
abhorrent thoughts:
over the years of
struggling to crawl out of
the quicksands of overdraft
fees that swallow you whole,
you begin to realize that the
biggest bank robbers in the
world are, indeed, the banks
themselves and need to be
completely eradicated
from existence.
How do parents raise their
progeny and go through
life without smoking ****
or drinking beer?
There are 26 letters in the
alphabet and 171,476 words
in the English language
(48,156 of which, are obsolete)
and an infinite combination of
sentence structure fluctuating
between a wide range of
poor grammatical constructions and  
robust iambic pentameters that laureate
writers, poets, novelists incarcerate
themselves into their own ingenuity.
So if Stokoe could write about cows
and Banks could write about wasps
then I should be able to write about
honey badgers because honey
badgers don't care if I write
about forlorn laundry rooms.
As I patiently wait, that
dryer gave me 20 minutes
alone with my thoughts and
tranquility. Pandering in my
immortality for my mind to
manufacture the ammunition,
my hand is the submachine gun
and this poem is the blood splatter
behind the wall of implementation
and that's worth more to me
than 1000 hours of
overtime at work.