Hey John  dam it's been long so what do ya do these days?
Well I write  do stand up comedy.
Wow like your not even funny and you were always so shy I cant imagine you doing that.

                                                   Another Person.
Hey wow this is a really deep write who would guess the comedian could write so deep.

                                                 Yet Another

Hey you know your jokes really arent family friendly.
Some of them were really offensive and you should really stop talking about so many taboo
subjects maybe stop being so vulger.


                                      A Person I Knew When I Was A Kid

Hey man have you changed remember how you were so shy and didnt fit in
Its so great to see you trying so hard do you work i mean a real job cause that writting stuff and comedy is
okay for fun but you gotta grow up sometime JP is it okay to call you JP.
I mean we herd how you dont like being called that anymore but we always called you that.

                                                A So Called Friend.

                                              Hey you ever hear from John?
  Oh well probaly just off being weird what a loser man he thinks he's funny.
                    **** maybe funny looking what a stupid ******* .
                                                Hey John!
Man i was just talkin about you what you been up to dam it's good to see you.



                                                      A Stranger That I Made Laugh

                                                         Hey wanna drink?
                          You must keep people around you laughing all the time.

                                                     Sometimes Ignorance Is Bliss

i press my shoulder against a cool brick wall.
the birds are screaming at the sun
rodents hide in the thick grass and
burrow deep in the cool soft ground.
i will find a safe place to bury goals
and innocence, bad ideas
a new deck of cards
and a bottle of something.
i will mold you a statue of my kiss.
so beautiful it will cement your feet to the ground
so silent, all you'll hear is sound.
all i have in my pocket is a swiss army knife
half a pack of cigarettes
and a folded paper bird.

i cannot seem to write anymore.

gone, the days of furious penning
that delivered a trail of thoughts
to your door.

now, my inkwell is full of air
and dried crumbly scrapings
of purple berried residue.

and this paper? yellowed onion-skinned
husk of memory,  too flimsy to withstand
the heavy strokes of my pen.

no, i cannot seem to write anymore.

here, thought floats through my head.
i play ****** and grab, clutch at nothing.

swimming, swimming words,
a wispy film before my eyes.

The photo reminded her of bruised fruit. Well first and foremost:fruit.
Her body, curled around itself, sheltering the fibrous crunchy pit of her, her body white and frayed looking, rounded buttock, calf gently sloping, feet modest, willowy toes toenails like shale
face blurred, questionable dark spots where her eyes could have been. they closed as the shudder buckled, her mouth sagged open, lip lolling to one side, brow ancient furrowed like folds of sand nudged by a lazy tide.  None of it concise, only guessing. Her knees brought up, squeezed against small  
crunch-able chest. Full, heavy with pulp (stringy sweet, what snags on the teeth) but what if it were to fall from an appreciable height? Filmy is the flesh. Daring the looker to look closer, see what mite be hidden there.
Ripe:questionable. Sweet like nothing, pouring from the corners of a mouth: what a bite it would be.
That first bite.
The bruising comes in when she thinks of the brain beneath, that open, limitless figure so pale and forefront and brimming with intent, so crush-able with careless fist, so lovable with thirsty mouth. But what of the mind that put her before you, that turned her vulnerable, shameless, open for discussion?
Put her before you. naked.

The phone rings
I can't tell which
Pocket is on fire.

I take it out
Already answered
Something is dangling

It is my father's tears
Whose common theme
Is death of fathers.

"Is it Basil?" I ask.
"It is."

lines-- they shriek and gimick these
mimics, blank corneas set against
slanted eyes.

the world of characters,
tiny, prepubescent, etched
shadow in mocking fingers

stinks of unyielding white,
light that has shook our books
off the shelves, off our shoulders
to the

c-Lack! pebbles spewing and
clanging against a shiny lock--

dissonance of demise
biting in disguise

In the hanging kitchen, the smell-
cut cayenned sausage, ejective tomato slices
the whole thing in the back of the throat, inflamed.
Olive oil. Vinegar. Billie talks about her "girl
friend." She lives in Mayfair. (Almost pretty;
don't look too long.)

At times I feel sick.

American man he
strikes the figure of a half-God
broad-shouldered, burned
he does Not exist, John Henry
split his bust long ago and we
are huddled small boys imperfect
in the dust of his legacy.

Our fathers stood from dinner tables kissed
wives were kissed by children one last sip of old
wines and walked into the night looking
for burned-up lamps, the memories of mountains.
Ate stone. Drank mist.
(A thirst for adventure is close to your heart.)
Fell into the grit, the failure, fell
into everything.
(Little else has taste once the spice of life is on your tongue.)

I have nothing but my understanding.
I want to be swaddled, paralytically blind, shamelessly loved.
Or to go out in the wicker
world, there to find whatever our best
died looking for, tigers or ruins or
a life after adventure.