Boogers are the best
Out of all the tasty treats
I love the way my fingers feel
Digging deep into the meat
Out of all that I stick in my mouth
Boogers are my all time favorite thing
Nothing's more satisfying
Than a good ****** to eat

************

After it is I posted this
I see I should have proof read
As it's staring back at me
I'm more than a bit embarrassed
Burgers "NOT" boogers
Is what it should have said
Once again I have to blame
That with a mind of its own...spell check

There was a man called Woogers,
Who liked to eat his boogers,
All the kids in the street,
Thought it was a disgusting feat,
He almost stopped,
But then he popped,
All of his raging boils.

There was a man named Soils,
Who liked to pop his boils,
All the animals around,
Thought it was a disgusting sound,
So he stopped,
And dropped,
Dead.

i would like a pizza topped with cheese
then sprinkled with some gnats or fleas
some centipedes and slimy slugs
and other creepy, crawly bugs

i want to add some fingernails
and oyster ooze and crunchy snails
and chicken bones and spoiled meat
and smelly socks from ***** feed

i want it topped with lots of mold
and gooey boogers that's not too old
a lot of snot, a little spit,
and guts with grainy grit

I wish you could see what I see here.
Smell the beautiful stench of sewage and un-showered people.
Feel the African wind fly through your hair,
bringing with it a mouthful of dirt.
Pick dry black boogers from your nose, and
bits of dirt and grime from your eyelashes.
Clean your teeth of the ram you watched them **** last night,
just before you ate it.
I wish you could feel the Ethiopian sun on your bare arms,
licking dry lips because you ran out of clean water to drink.
See millions of curious brown eyes as you fly down dirt roads
in a squeaky dust-covered van.
Watch the African sun rise upon a city of stories,
stories which walk the streets every day without fail.
I wish you could be here and experience this.
I wish I could bring you here.
One day.

Some people think that as an
Adult
I can be a tad rough
Rock solid skin
But as a
Child
I was exponentially
Worse

Kicked
Screamed
Cried
Teased
Scratched

A walking terror
My father deemed me
"Crab-Apple Lynn"


The neighbors would
Whisper
Of that horrid five-year-old
Girl
That would push and
Tackle
The boys down the street

And on the night
That I kicked my
Brother's friend in the
Groin
And he tumbled
Down the stairs
Word spread like
Wildfire
That Crab-Apple
Had struck again

Notorious bully
Walking with balled fists
Kicking over Lincoln Logs
Smashing Play-Doh sculptures
Sneezing purposefully
Spewing out green phlegm
And wiping the boogers
On fellow peers
Half-grinning
At their cries

Feared by all
But respect
Was the one thing
The miniature version of
Me
Could not earn

And despite my youth
Despite the over-sized chip on my shoulder
Tiny me
Found a way
To flip around
Turn a leaf
Turn a page
Turn a head

Completely change
Altogether

And suddenly
Crab-Apple disappeared
And Sarah grew in
View

It was as though
Somehow, someway
The little me knew that

Fear is worthless

Sitting there yesterday at the football game,
Watching my son tackling the quarterback,
Feeling the warm sun and watching him earn respect,
From his teammates, made my heart proud.

Looking around, I saw the cheerleaders, 11 yrs old, too.
Yelling and flipping and shouting.
Then from nowhere, "My glitter is sweating off!"
Makes me laugh outloud.  

Little kids running everywhere,
Parents watching their kids, visiting,
It was a great scene!

Until I looked down in this sneezing little boys face,
And watched him scoop up some boogers
and have a snack.

Looking back I suppose it is only to be expected
as part of the scenery, and I can laugh now.
Just as watching the cheerleaders commenting,
And the poor kid who pulled a groin muscle,
Hobble off the field, is part of the scene.

All in all, a beautiful day, fun, family, and reality all at once.

In Lieu of Abuse
1
I have problems with letting go, moving on, losing people. Nothingness is recurring nightmare. It seems like events around me aren’t good, but I get used to them, then ground pulls from under me, and I’m supposed to adapt, which I do too slowly, and grow accustomed to not good situations getting worse, when ground pulls from under me again, and here I am in recurring nightmare, only it’s reality.
2
I watched exquisitely lovely girl picking her nose and eating boogers. Wow, I thought, this girl is *****. What I mean by men are pigs, imagine old homeless lady tripping and falling on street, and her skirt flying up exposing naked ******. What is the male hesitation quota?
3
So let’s just say, for argument’s sake, women are wiser tougher gender, and men are boorish dunces. Reasons for enduring patriarchy are fear, or personality weakness, or female longings for daddy worship. So let’s just say, for argument’s sake, I’ve just signed my own “Satanic Verses.” I hate quarreling. It’s not nearly as much fun as making-out. Up, down, up, down, I love you, miss you, love, love, love you, yes, I do. California is definitely due for another earthquake. My guess is two to three weeks. Didn’t the Giants win the World Series this year? Yup, my guess is two to three weeks.
4
Respect is directly linked to gratitude. Sometimes respect is easy to forget, mindless drifting easier, degrading life’s worth a breeze. ****. If I was a fish, swimming in a bowl, blowing bubbles, flapping fins, splashing around tank, trapped in cramped space, I think I’d go crazy, and bang my face against aquarium glass, smash my head to bits, floating to water’s surface.
5
Pretend you were never born, not a trace anywhere, and you have no idea what existence and consciousness mean, or anything, or nothing.
6
What resolve? Dance the dance, drift to sleep, dream neverland, nevermind, nevertheless endure recurring nightmare. Okay, let’s try again, make a plan, build a house, and leave all this negativity behind. Okay, okay, so I talk to myself, somewhat incessantly. I think obscene ill thoughts. I fantasize a woman tied to bed. Do you still want to make a plan and build a house? I asked my shrink, “Why did you become a psychiatrist? Did you originally intend to be a doctor in another field?” She replied, “I’ve always only wanted to be a psychiatrist.” I wonder why.
7
Man walks into a woman. He says, “It’s dark in here.” She says, “Maybe your eyes will adjust to the light, maybe not.” He stumbles out into night. The moon eclipses.

The faint smell of the watery sugar
is barely noticed. The starfruit's fragrance
swept away into faint nothingness
at the hands of the tropical winds of Hawaii.

Hanging onto the tree, the fruit once sour and bitter
undergoes a seemingly emotional transformation.
The sun's sweet-tempered fingers are secretly and appealingly molding it.
It learns to be sweet instead of sour,
our taste buds tingling with the power to taste,
but being held closely like bloodhounds on a leash.

It brings an exotic originality to the table.
The Vietnamese fable, blah-blah-bitty-blah its unknown.
It's skin kissed by golden rays,
and the once green fades
into a sweet banana yellow.

on the inside, it still knows its roots,
it still knows the sliminess of negativity,
and on the inside it holds tan pellets shaped just like tear drops,
embraced within its boogers of its old bitter soul.

Droplets of water drip-drop down
off the waxy fruit, and it lays silently on a freckled
black marble counter. Sweating sickeningly after a cold shower,
its cool glistening skin signals its execution.
Soon enough the executioner arrives,
the sharp shining blade blinding
with bright lines of reflected light.

No, it wasn't nearly as crisp and sugary as an apple,
nor was it even as sweet and citrusy as an orange,
and yet, it was a little bit of both.
The little stars stuck somewhere in-between,
alone in the galaxy of oranges and apples.

Whenever I ask myself, I wonder if anyone has ever touched their toe to their *******, I know someone has. I know it’s possible and it’s true. I am a human. I don’t have anything to prove and I don’t have to prove anything. I am here to be here. There is nothing besides happy.
There are holes in everybody’s story. You never know everything about anybody. The person you want to spend the rest of your life with may pick their nose and eat the boogers. They may talk bad about you on the phone. Hell, maybe they abuse their pets when you’re gone. You can’t know until you catch it on camera. My coworker once told me, “You be careful.” He said, “You know, people be watchin’ when you don’t think they watchin’.” I have a saw in my closet. I asked myself, “What would you be scared to see?”
My hands are always cold. I once picked my grandmother’s dog up by its hind legs with my cold hands. I didn’t even know they were mine until years later when my cousin told me and I confessed to my grandma. I think my cousin is gay but no one will admit they’re thinking the same thing. All he eats is bologna with mustard, how many times can you eat mustard in one day? How many spoons do you have? I only use knives with butter when I scrape the butter from a spoon. I’m not an idiot. Butter goes on toast.
My sister doesn’t use a toilet, she dug a hole. She could fit into the hole if she wanted to, but she doesn’t want to, she dug it for me. I still haven’t thanked her but I don’t think she’s noticed, she still talks to me.

The night we went to that club in Seoul
And danced with Hot Toby

We got back to the hostel and we were staying in the
Basement that night

I was so sick, needed to pass out
And proceeded to use a shirt
As a snot rag throughout my sleep

I woke up and the shirt had turned to solid concrete
Boogers cement

We had to wake up early
We went to go look at temples

I didn’t wash that shirt
I just wore it

And I remember needing to pass out
All day; so sick I couldn’t taste anything
Not even Kimchi

And I said to myself
"I just need to party"

So we went out that night
I didn’t change
My clothes

Crystalline gliding.
Clippin' cuticles in cubicles
& itching for a kaleidoscope
dance
with The Phantom
sidling ridged in the ceiling's fold.

Glazed eyes from a friend.
honey crueler.
Polymerization twists coffee sweats with briny tears
& my pores breath the calcification.
Beet red eyes sting like molten hiss
& pollen still buries it's way deep  
into the tree trunk,
Bleeding like a sour calf
just to stroke a
coconut leaf
in the musky village.

I live inside a cantaloupe
so I can't elope with status quo.
Sipping puddles & licking groggy mud spots
so the Queen calls me swamp belly.
She looked like she was carved out of rice.
bitten & frail steps
with gentle linger
teased soft grass
in the concrete canal
where the streets glistened
with mustaches  drenched
in honey brown ale.

His brain is a tickled cauliflower
encased in Papier-mâché,
Lima bean boogers
&
nicotine stained chestnut shells.
Gears torque and crudely animate
his sluggish form and peanut butter
body.
Diabetic eyes,
that bark like a sloth &
lay a thick layer of custard over their
last nerve,
intrigue mine own to stare
into the vague emptiness.

2 a.m.
I dig through my nose
find boogers
stare out the window blankly
hear birds
or maybe the dude downstairs
eyes are out of focus
bed feels too far away

It had been said that writing is the window to the soul
As if our souls have been locked in the houses of our bodies
The flesh and blood of empty shells that have waited so long to be embodied
When we die our bodies get put on the market
Our friends become nothing, we become the homes of maggots
We rot until the soil finishes our bones
Leaving nothing left but soft soil where we grow real live homes
Made of brick and of high plaster ceilings
Or we might grow temples, as we give our souls to some higher being, kneeling
On hardwood floors,
with concrete steps that lead up to chapel doors
And if you're not one for religion than we might build grocery stores
Lined with meats and cheeses, spilled milk on the floors
Because of toddlers who have had too much sugar
We may even build centers for children who flick their boogers
Or homes for the folks who can no longer walk
Hospitals for those we have deemed unfit because they chose not to talk
I suppose they may build whatever your soul has become
I suppose they may build a window to your soul, a literal one
If you could look into your window after death, do you think
That if you peer hard enough, close enough..
Do you think you would like what you see?


It has been said that writing is the window to the soul
As if we are locked in a prison of flesh and blood
Maybe it's why so many people feel less than enough
And maybe it's the universe's idea of punishing us
Because this whole house of flesh is covered in muscle and blood
Moving body parts, cells,thoughts and emotions like love and lust
Pushed all together supposedly the way we're supposed to be
Souls like caged animals waiting to break free
Like my rib cage can't hold the thousands of lifetimes sewn into my soul
Because a soul is too big for 342 bones to hold
With lifetimes yet to mold
If I truly am caged, there is just one more question I must ask of thee
Do I really want to be free?

If writing is a window to the soul
Then my body must be a home
But I want you to look into my eyes and tell me what you see
Because if I'm supposed to feel at home,
why does this house feel empty.

There is a fungus growing
On my feet between my toes
I think they call it toe cheese
Admittedly, it’s gross

My hope is that it goes away
Or at least draws to a close
I sprayed it with some medicine
At the root of where it grows

Suggestions are all welcomed
As I weigh the cons and pros
The time I spent in treatment
Wasn’t what I chose

If I could hide it I would do so
Like the boogers in my nose
But there’s really nothing that can compare
To the fungus between my toes

There’s itching and discomfort
It’s will, it has imposed
Maybe I’ll just wait it out
Or until something explodes

I realize that this topic,
Is silly and obscure
I just wish that it would go away
I wish they’d find the cure!!

i cut a habanero for my lunch
and forgot to clean my hands
i picked my nose
and was quickly drawn
back to reality
it burned but
i grew to like its affect
because i stopped thinking
and worried about my nose

We will float together then sink
And everyone who told me a pond stone was nothing but a nuisance to open toes and hard boiled heads was nothing but the devil to me
Everyone who sinks becomes the foundation of those who rise
I don't need you to die and hover above me like a cloudy day
Bad weather bad coffee
My hand trembles and this
Sweater never keeps me warm
The shiver within my soul is all I'm concerned about
the white ghosts that sits on your fingertips never did you any better
All I get is dark blood and broken teeth
Ten missed calls and kisses to wipe off the salty lust of my ever present agony
Anyone who tells me that I'm **** can answer to the moss that thanklessly sits on the rocks who patiently wait for time to throw off its holey shoes and let the earth fall silent to its restless murmur
You've done me wonders soft Angeles
My toes weave throughout your docile grasp
While my stoic heart rests soundly beneath your cushioned palms
Sweltering and oozing, going numb then returning
All beneath the cusp of the delicate curls that nature brushes with her fine pearl comb
Anyone who says I'm doomed, done, hopeless, out of luck, out of time, out of ideas
Can answer to their own empty plates
I'm not giving out any answers
So you can fill the black void of your own cackles and despair
That are  better suited for the leaves that clench for dear life to the streets that have let them become a porridge of their own flakey guts
They smear across the roads indented forearms  like the boogers and black eyeliner smeared across your swollen lips
Dying for a finger to press them shut
Give them mercy
let them fall into a bland line
That the ticking clock can rest upon until it meets the shallow ridges of your rib cage sorrows
I'm listening
Humming beneath the manic sound of your quivers and heaves
I'm listening
To your story book hidden in the corner of a library floor kindred bodies go to rest their skeleton key fingers
theyll place them atop books that became the coffins for bodies now swimming in worms and the *** of their volatile passion that little have the right to coat their throats with but slurp up greedily regardless
One of them will unlock your beautiful brain
And I will be there
Resting amongst the pile of your hair
Sweaty and battered
The sunshine gleams upon you and god isn't a fox trap around my ankles
He's the circles of your eyes
And I'm ready to feel better

While not everybody naps
Simply everybody craps.
If you don’t you’re a goner
I swear by my honor
There’s no substitute for it
So just get used to it.
It’s like boogers, you see
It’s not talked of openly.

The public has an allergy
Of what can be said honestly.
You can admit to burping
But must do so excusing
As if you had taken a dump
Instead of expelling a lump
Of non-poisonous gas.
Society is a ***.

And while we’re at it
We live in a world here
Where ******* are reshaped
And formed by a brassiere
But no crotch bulges for men
Especially not big shaped ones.
As I have already implied
Society is a mean son-of-a-gun.

Breastfeeding an infant is
Seen as some kind of ****
But under-aged girls in bikinis?
That is why men were born.
They were put on earth to see
And love nature and its gifts.
But women in public should
Not show uncovered ****.

Just remember this and
You will do very well.
Being natural is for sure
The best way to go to hell.
You must always look to
The bluenosed of society
To shape your fine sense
Of decency and propriety.

A natural person, as God made
Is surely just the Devil’s work.
Because the Devil is more
Important that that God ****.
God and Santa make lists
And punish us by and bye
But Satan does it right now
And then spits in your eye.

So, be the proper citizen
And don’t do what is natural.
Following on nature’s bent
Will do you no good at all.
Even though the Bible won’t
Agree to this simple plan
Just look around you to learn
What is in society’s plan.

He is red
Flakes of skin breaking away from his arms and face
He smiles stretching the cigarette stain on his white mustache

You young people have got it all wrong

Let me tell you a story
Don’t worry it’s a funny story

He looks behind him to make sure he can soak up my time
I tell the cashier to stay and check if anybody comes

One time there was this really dumb bird
Had a nice beard like yours
Real busy guy
And he waited til winter to fly south

If this story is about me I’m not sure

Some of us work real hard
And still manage to justify that we have nothing

I wonder if he knows I can see the boogers in his nose

The bird finally took off for home
But it began to rain
He kept flying
Then it started to hail
The hail beat his wings
It was getting hard to flap
His body began to shiver

He smiles again
It makes his lips crack and bleed a little
Underneath the stretch of yellow
He exhales and his breath smells sweetly of beer

It began to snow
Lightly at first
Though it was cold it was easier to fly
But the snow fell thicker
It coated his body
His heart slowed
He began to feel really tired
He started to descend
He was dying

He places a hand on mine for a moment
His is comfortably rough
Shovel callous rough
Cinderblock stack rough

If that touch was for me or him
I’m not sure

All these stories are just ways we beg people to stay
This poetry is just a way to keep you here
Touch you with my rough and tremble
So you can look at my cracked broken and ******
A little longer

The bird kept falling
Until he hit the earth
And you know where he landed?
Right in a big cow patty
But the warmth of the fresh ****
Melted the snow
Gave him his life back
So he rolled around in it and began to sing
He sang and sang and sang
And a hawk heard the singing
It was winter
The hawk was hungry
And he ate that bird with the nice beard

He slaps the counter separating us
Eyes widen to mounds of earth
Two big fat piles of cow **** staring at me and smiling

I don’t feel like laughing

And the moral of that story young man
Is if you’re covered in **** and somehow happy
Keep your mouth shut

These stories are just reasons
And I don’t feel like laughing

I laugh anyway

you can’t use the public restroom  
without smelling someone else’s ****,
counting smeared boogers on the wall
and reading poetry written by little boys
who will one day run the country.

Some roses are red,
Some tulips are magenta,
We hardly can believe
Four years ago we met ya.

Most grass is green,
Diamonds and ice are rocks,
We hope you enjoy your books,
new clothes and socks.

Nighttime sky is black,
The ocean (I guess) is teal,
How lucky we are
To have you is so unreal.

The sun appears yellow,
Boogers are chartreuse,
If you were a ******,
We'd always pick you!

Here we go
Another testament of what we already know
Just for show
So that the unbelievers will be put back in the quiet zone.
That's what is right?
That's what's in his write?
And to put people in their place is something that is his right?
And here he is pointing his little fingers at the other man,
The same fingers that pick his boogers on the same pointers on the other hand.
And he wants all those around him to understand?
When he cant stand
While his temper rises and nostrils flare as his eyes expand.
Tell me this, tell me this,
When did the solution to the polluted arguments turn to breaking wrists
Over the back and forth action of battling opposites
Who wait for their friends to chime in and throw them some compliments.
"It's only common sense."
"It's only civil defense."
"I'm trying to prove that everyone's wrong and I'm the one in perfect tense."
Sadly
We all gladly
Trade our thoughts for emotion and want to get rid of truth so badly.
We turn to insanity and sadly we're in love so madly.
I don't throw shade but I stay under my shady tree.
Pass me the plate of fries but don't you dare give salt to me.
You see I'm free,
I don't need some validation from my anger to give me Identity.
So finish up your childish games,
It's time for dessert, but your still stuck on your tiny screen.

Her name is Plum, she's six years old and she's a beauty queen.
But she and her mama are two of the dumbest people I've ever seen.
They are so dumb that they can't pronounce tornado.
Plum likes to eat her boogers and her mama is a ***.
Plum has a maybe daddy and his name is Boof.
He may not be her dad, they don't have any proof.
Plum's mama made her fight an alligator so she could get paid.
Plum won the fight by blowing up that alligator with a grenade.
This mother and daughter are a couple of hicks who are very silly.
Plum's mama is supposed to be a woman but I think she has a *****.
Plum's mama is an unfit mother and should be put under arrest.
Plum is the only six year old that I've ever seen who has *******.

Blue ***** are a myth
People with bad motives are not
Eating boogers is going too far
But you may mildly enjoy your snot
Jacking off seems perfectly fine
But ***** can mess with your head
Love may not be all you need
But there's a lot to be gained in bed

Break time smokers digging for gold
Oblivious finger flicks a winning nugget
Outside, from the nose, flung without direction
Gasps gaggles of gossip girls unamused
Emptying casinos fearful of mucous, or swine flu.
Reality’s TMZ, latex gloves and masked celebrities say
Stay at home, with your cigarettes and boogers in ashtrays.