I bought a slingshot
from a cartoon ad
at the back of my comic book.

I made a target
from a piece of wood
and it kinda looks like a person.

I collected rocks
from the school
but only the ones that are sharp.

I waited for the mail
with Mrs. Kliven next door
whose son is in the military.

I got my slingshot
from the ad in the book
and all my rocks fit in it just right.

To answer your question from earlier with a newfound clarity, we're over. I've been ready to let go, but unable to budge an answer from the woman of such few words. Well, tonight she dropped me, and it's official. She punched my sheet and gave it back for the last time, passing me back into the world without a hurtful word like I'd been her best employee.

What's it going to be like now, as the human slingshot? All the emotions long left to the side return to the hole the skeleton of our dull relationship dug from the dense pulp of my longing body. I'll be a bullet, the smallest pebble, toward a target picked at random.

That's what's called a faulty firing pattern. For all I've tried, the SSRI won't fix my inability to grasp the practice of foresight, so for once I'll have to really think about putting my foot in the door. A road like that leads to nothing but the worst I have to offer, and the worst the world finds it can give in return.

I want to love, but I don't want to date. What is dating? I feel too old, and if you tell me I'm not old by any standard, then I feel like I missed something. I want to love, but I want to do. As I do, I want to meet. And if I never, then that's fine. But I'd rather meet and make the silent hard sell in a moment of the truest definition of fiery, urgent complacency, than pick through peers and lovers like I'm at a thrift store bin.

What I want, is to do what I want, and do what I know I shouldn't do, while sometimes pretending it's this great disaster that I report in writing, type into boxes on screens that lead directly to the people most likely to benefit from hearing about repeated and semi-purposeful crash and burns.

My perpetual hope is that I'll catch lust's throbbing hand so well wrapped around my throat that I'll simply die. That I'll choke and choke until you, whoever you are, break the bones away and choke my lungs with blood. I hope for the spastic gasps that you'll confuse for last breaths, when I'm actually having an ******.

In the midst of conversation A question rose out of the blue,
What would I do if such opportunity were to arise.
In a conversation about long term goals without hesitation or notion
Without any specifics given to her question I asked what opportunity.
She laughed slightly and repeated the question.
This time reaching inside of her chest and pulling her heart into a closer view.
She waited for reply.
I wandered around the look in her eye glancing back down at a now throbbing heart.
She said well, In a topic of long term ambition show me that I am not wrong about you.
I trust you well enough to do exactly what I know your about to do.
She stated nothing further.
With that being said I'd like to think that I made the right decision.
The openness of conversing about any and everything, the hint that actions speak louder than words.
I did what I suppose any sane man would do.
I flung myself into her chest and landed dead in the center of her heart without fear of missing.

I don't write uplifting words
my poems are  stones I throw at the soaring birds
Because I'm jealous
Yearning to get that high and it makes me rebellious
All I want is a friend
But y'all just pretend
I invite you to a home
Love you just like kin
And what do I get in return
A back stab and a burn
But just wait
Just wait  youll get yo turn
Think one day you'll learn
That what you get is what you earn
What you dish
Is what you fish
What you leave
Is what you receive
Then one day we can try again
You can try to accompany me

Roofus *****
Is the best

With the slingshot

Shootin' quarters
Out of the air
Without a care

He says,
"See that Japanese beetle
Sittin' on the leaf?"

He shot it right off the top
Good grief!

What is his his secret?
Well practice makes perfect

And he never did
Own a t.v.

R.I.P. Rufus
(1919-1994)