I throw pebbles at your window.
We need to talk. You come down
and we sit in the dark and shyly
hold hands and touch cheeks and
embrace with all our hearts and
make love in the night again.

I dress invisible and tiptoe to my spot
where I wait quiet with a rifle ready
to **** a deer. I look for my manhood
in death's dominance, a deer in my truck.
I drink a six pack. Country music plays.
In bed we ****. I cry quiet for the deer.

I eat your poetry like ice cream.
It settles in orbits in my mind.
A universe of words swirling
into meanings understood by
the lost souls called poets.

It offers cheap beds for
cheap thrills for white trash.
I love the ****** who love me.
They keep it clean with Mr. Nix.
The Waffle House is nearby
for a cheap date night after.

What was poetry for?
Did it change the world?
Will it stop her from leaving?
Poetry seems less and less as
new decades invade our dying days.
I might as well recite ABC's.

When your lies stack up like kindling
and she finally strikes a match and it
all bursts into fury that will not stop
until life is nothing but cold dead ash.

We poets watch the world our eye
    glued to a microscope. We pick it
    apart and we lecture in slow motion.
    We examine nerve ends as blood explodes
    when your soul mate breaks your heart.
    We've felt your pain and suffer with you.
    We are undertakers dressed as clowns.
    We are clowns who bury your dead
in irony. They never looked so good?
Poets always die misunderstood.