Hush little baby, don't you cry,
Mama's gonna feed you some cyanide,
If that cyanide don't **** you,
Mama's gonna drown you in the tub,
If you don't go glub glub in the tub,
Mama's gonna stab you a thousand times,
Hush little baby, rest your head,
In a few seconds you'll be dead,
La la la la la la la la la,
La la la la la la la la la.

Am I depressed
Or just a little sad?
Am I insane
Or just a touch too mad?

I try to find rhythm
In the words on the page
But I long to be free
And escape from this cage

I try to find order
In a humdrum, safe life
But I need to get out
Find some conflict and strife

I'm going insane,
At least, that's what I think
And I know that my thoughts
Are beginning to sink

They're becoming so wild
So restless, untamed
And there's things in my head
That can not be named

They claw at my eyelids
They scream in my ears
They keep me awake
And they pour out my tears

I'm going insane
I just want it to end
I don't know what's coming
Around the next bend

The suspense is killing me
Will someone please help?!
I'm about to fall off
Of the highest high shelf

When I hit the ground
I'll shatter and break
And the pieces of me
Will be left for a day

Just to gather some dust
Just to sit there and rot
Because no one will give me
A first second thought

So the pieces of me
That are shattered and broken
Will remain like the words
That I've left unspoken

Alone

I wanted to say something about love
that has never been said...

So I said this... ahem

"My love is like a tiger with no fangs hooked up to a nuclear power plant headed over by a Rottweiler who can't stop the imminent nuclear meltdown because he doesn't have fingers."

The next poem will be a little less different.

Welcome to me too.
Thanks for coming in high-altitude, if you're really into them.
There are new-tutorials, and I'm not going to need one.
Why not do the news? I love plain and simple.
Free-market sloping losses will do this;
because of bipartisan politics.
Luyendyk news is crowded by Audi's and by partisan politics;
I don't like my partisan politics.
Star tutorials are tutorial-soon.
This is a new tutorial for my into being given to the jury
in tutorial.

People present their uh dreams,
and a jury room is like love;
a little atmosphere me in a circle,
meaning we are (he is) related to the moon .

I'm the serving the Newburgh tutorial right now
around this one:
The new green play I'm into.
This one’s just a little on the Brumbies
cuz glass needs it to learn.
I am the circus mom pursuing your doom;
a mistaken rampant around jug-glass John,
inputting the bar’s shiny leading to the bottom-thanked step.
Number one is singing your doom on.

Be an unloaded nerd, like a dump truck dumping dirt into our hearts
while holding the whole lamar,
and perfecting the bar starting with p.
Put on the range
near the whole ecosystem in a in a bubble.
Second thing you gotta do is earn it,
you do this, but we plan to our dirt up to nine innings.
love things American
like me
in the new godliness.

99 dramas trapped under so now I'm a real utah zombie,
and lines,

Andrew ate my tamales inside of 11 minutes,
and soon there will be more kerpustiuous ones ready to taste.
Watching ****** through three different windows; all broken at the moment.
Anyone have a sheet of blood to give to my mad mothers rage?
Let us copulate together for the glory of this fleeting age;
yet inside eleven minutes
the leaning waxy vomper mice shall dance upon my wig and deliver unto me an aching head.
So let me not,
no do not,
let me live
through this night so dark and shmear-ed upon this graven face.
Nay, let me live toward this learn-ed light with a hand to hold,
and away to learn your shining grace.

Three shots of Jameson and a few mouthfuls of Publix potato salad in, and I'm ready to write. Or so I thought. And yet, in some sort of cosmic ****, somebody with a name out of the past liked a poem on this site. No picture, no poems, no identifying information to speak of. Just a name. I don't even know what I was going to write now. Had some sort of an idea to talk about this job I have and tie that into a metaphor for America, all this very clean plastic and mysterious machines emitting odd beeping noises as I blast Muddy Waters and croone to poor people on the telephone who are far more bewildered than I. But now, oh no, not now. Now I have to reconsider my assumptions, yet again, and this on the heels of finally resigning myself to the demented suspicion that there really is no place for freaks like me who run off of alcohol and a sort of dark throw-back Watergate mentality. But now I have to look up at the tiled ceiling and have a what-the-**** conversation with the great comedian in the sky....again. I guess that's just the way it is, people coming and going out of life, and me doing everything I can to try and make some kind of sense out of this outrageousness. Ah ***** it, this is the Blues after all, and man oh man, sure makes a good story.

the universal symphony of creaking
chairs echoing with crickets
in the domain of body shaking
each high beam, a passing star
waiting to explode
on steely yellow lines
battles with hard cold
warm air, actually real,
how every story is the same,
with a slightly different
authoritarian directive,
to observe, and sometimes,
harm the feminine cry of *******,
and climb the stair case.