I hope that someday you realize your good enough.
That you’ll finally find a person to love you unconditionally,
To make all the others disappear and be gone into nothingness.

That he’ll be the one to comfort you and buy you pizza and a smoothie on the bad days.
That he’ll care when your upset and be there for you when your down.
To stick by your side through the bad times so the good times are a breeze.

i hope that someday you realize your worth.
That all this time you were better than the person you made yourself out to be.
That you realize you deserve the constant attention and midnight laughs.
You deserve to finally believe him when he tells you, you’re beautiful because they rest never  cared to prove it to you.

I hope that someday you feel loved.
And that you stop pasting a smile on your face and calling what you have love
That you don't have to lie to people when you argue that he cares about you.
That you feel loved by someone you can see yourself spending the rest of your life with.

I hope that you find a man one day that will look at you with glaring eyes.
Hopelessly, insanely in love with you enough where he cant take his eyes off you.
That he shows you off and flaunts you around because he feels so lucky.
I wish for you a gushey gewy disgusting love that people roll their eyes over.

I hope you finally love yourself enough to allow him to love you
That he only boosts  your confidence.
That he makes you feel like the absolute best version of you.
I hope he motivates you to get things done
that he is the best thing for you.

I hope you can let him in
Allow him to love you.
So you can witness all the beautiful in love.

A psych ward is the place to be,
Come along, and you will see.
You'll be welcomed by forgotten silent deaths
and torturous screams.
An everlasting place of a need to be free.

Come on down to the "freak show",
We'll show you how we rock and roll,
Some say that we're unhinged,
But trust me honey, the fun is about to begin.

A lobotomy a day keeps the schizophrenia away they say,
An electric chair isn't the cruelest thing there,
By far it is knowing that you are not crazy, amongst a world that is.

We'll dance for you, we do it well.
But if we don't, torture will make it amends.
We sit here day on day, hoping for freedom,
Uncanny, unlikely, and an impossible dream.

A  psych ward is the place to be,
We'll grow old here and die a forgotten death,
The music is still playing,
The patients are still dancing,
This is my last day.

So come on down to our freak show, join our family, we'll show you how to rock and roll,
And die insanely.

I want what you have
I want your dreams; the ones that scare you shitless
I want your secrets; the ones you can’t share with anyone
I want the thoughts that keep you awake at night; the ones that excite you
I want the ideas you want to share; the ones you know you never will share

I need what you have
I need your arms around my waist; the arms that will never be there
I need your lips pressed against mine; the lips that mine will never touch
I need your ***** smile smiling at me; the smile that will never look in my direction
I need your stupid ugly khaki jacket around my shoulders; the jacket that will never be near me

I wish that I have what you have
I wish I had your idiotic confidence; the confidence that I will never get back
I wish I had your insanely smart brain; the brain that has put up barriers against me
I wish I had your annoyingly inappropriate jokes; the jokes that you stopped telling me
I wish I had your ability to captivate the world; the captivation you no longer use on me

I yearn for what we could have been
I yearn to have an unconditional love; one that will never break
I yearn to have uncontrollable kisses; ones that we are unable to stop
I yearn to have cheesy promposals; ones that make everyone jealous of us
I yearn for extravagant valentine's day gifts; ones that make me want to scream and cry

You don't want what I have
My dreams; the ones that will never happen
My secrets; the ones that will tear people apart
My thoughts that keep me up at night; the ones that can even terrify me
My ideas that I want to share; the ones that would wreak havoc on everyone

You don’t need what I have
My thick messy hair; the hair that constantly falls in my face
My ***** brown converse; the ones with the laces falling apart
My empty grey eyes; the eyes that stare straight at you watching you ignore me
My annoying voice; the voice that says ****** comments to protect herself from your friends

You don’t wish to have what I have
My brutal honesty; the honesty that burns bridges
My crazy distrust; the distrust that worries my mother
My unbelievable pessimism; the pessimism that causes people to leave
My need to control everyone; the need to control that consumes all of my thoughts

You don’t yearn for what we could have been
You don’t yearn for unconditional love; not with me
You don’t yearn for uncontrollable kisses; but with her
You don’t yearn to give cheesy promposals; you would do anything to be with her
You don’t yearn to give extravagant valentine's day gifts; you would give anything to be with her

No matter how much I want...need...wish...yearn for you
You will always be wanting, needing, wishing, and yearning for her more
She is the pulsing red dot you are moving towards
I am barely more than a blip on your radar.

You are so beautiful.
Why do you even doubt yourself?
You are filled with love and care.
You comfort your friends and family
while you're fighting your own battles.
You're like a free hotel.
The shelter for every hangover.
You're smart.
No, intelligent.
You have all the right ideas about life,
about how to treat eachother.
You're creative.
Funny.
You're not afraid of spiders and hate putting on make-up.
You're independent.
18 years old in your own house,
a study you are paying yourselve.
You are strong.
3 years of anxiety could not knock you down.
You're openminded.
You see the story behind the deeds.
You're funny and positive.
And you can be insanely happy with a christmastree or a wink.
You can cook and dance and climb.
You can be sober and have the best night.
You're sensitive and compassionate.

You are so beautiful.

Autistic Rainbow

Let me paint my walls in hues of red, blue and yellow,
Inscribing its matrix deep into my marrow,
To lift my soul above the waters of filthy processes,
Counting the complexity of its shades each morning.
In their domain they fumble daily to cope,
And insanely we at times laugh at their struggle,
When in reality it is our inability to understand,
These loving persons who bring innocent love.
Shame on me, as they paint my canvas in colours!
And I miss the opportunity to enjoy their unique joys.

her morning pleasure occasionally actually exercised,
a substituted delight for gym-going work with Lulu exercised,
no man can, will ever, understand

the nature/nurture debate over,
in my mind resolved, nature, hands up and hands down

RR's^  query, is god dead,
no longer rumbles around in my head cause when he speaks,
I can't get a word in edgewise

what i did in the sixties, lost to time in memoriam,
especially some really bad poetry

but this gender differentiation
a matter that Aristotle dutifully, so wisely, philosophically avoided

there is no Socratic method rationality in what is just crazy insanely meiosis,
there is no comprehension of the essence of  elemental genetic division,
like the NY Mets,
ya just gotta believe, or just accept

but from the other side of the bed
comes a surly, dry rejoinder, a gelled spike

thanks to modern science,
why don't you come over to the
right side, maybe then,
you'll understand the true meaning
of pleasure

transgend your self,
show your willingness per the bible,
to be god's new and improved version of a human being

So,
a pretty little, light A-line,
with a summer floral pattern,
a size 12, (20? ***)
I,
will wear with great
human pride,
come June

Kozarev.
One tickling of my breath.
One naughty fantasy.
One piece, of forbidden bliss.
One haziness I chose to feel.
The seventh drip, of my ****** blood.
The light on the very tip of my tongue.
The fire of my thoughts; my minds, and even my slightest, hesitation.
A charm so genuine, clear, and vibrant;
But never raises; nor becomes too petulant.
A crush I firstly detested,
but to which now; I am most heartily attached.
And all in all, the prince I once prayed for,
the man I ever so sincerely dreamed of.
Kozarev.
O, my Kozarev-
my very, my very own, Kozarev.
Had I not attended to yon duty that night-
There might have been no Kozarev at all;
Ah, that one night-that was indeed so blinding and tantalizing,
Yet full of auspicious words, and weary tasks;
And I felt a lot of fantasies were whirling about me-
Speeding about like they had never been before;
Making my auras more visible, and my shy lips form and seen more,
Ah, but all was, and still is-because of thee, Kozarev.

Ah, Kozarev, do you know not-how I often picture thee;
Thee with fits of exuberant temper; or joys so enigmatic, and tender.
Sometimes you startle me, or become simply too childish but lovely;
And offer a love I have never been used to, or shall be used to-or either.
I am charmed by your presence;
For 'tis much more valuable than any slice of gem;
Nor a number of countless diamonds, or divine salutations.
A love so vehement, a love too virulent.
A love not so tough, nor one too dramatic;
A love that fears betrayal and torment,
A love too expected, but never grow, nor be chaotic.
Ah, and sadly perhaps you are the last love-but the one
that shall never grow, regardless of how handsome you are;
Still, you are too far, and far away, from my felicity;
You are like an evil hero urging to be my temptation;
You adore my morning and flirt with my afternoon-
With some shy shades, that sadly shall disappear-or fade away, too soon.
Ah, Kozarev, you are real, but sometimes unreal as a painting;
Your heart knows not sorrow; nor desperate cries-that are all honest,
For your heart is not yours now, but someone else's.
Ah, how a woman-a similar being to me, can be so fortunate-
I know not how, for she is in possession if thee, and thy very fate;
She who shall live by thee and by thee only, grow old,
She whose hands are to be so lucky in thy marriage.
Sometimes I understand not, how I can be so bold,
And wordless-upon your very mentioning of her name,
For as I say nothing, my warm blood still gets cold,
For my heart is torn, and turned into raw pieces of shame.
Ah, Kozarev, but still-you know never any of this suffering;
Over a joy that I cannot reach, over the half of my heart, that you make missing.

Ah, Kozarev, perhaps you shall never read any of my poetry,
nor know anything else about me;
For your heart is altogether too lively and swift;
With secrets I cannot see; and stubborn closures I cannot lift.
But do you know that sometimes I dream of thee-
and our charming melancholy Sofia?
Ah, those dreams-dreams that are so purely thick, but solid-and sweet?
Dreams that I cannot forget-or simply cannot forgive.
For you are there-always, even only as a shadow in my dreams;
Just like you are a shadow in my reality-ah, you whom I greatly miss,
But sadly can perhaps never become my real lover-oh, my true gentle lover!
For you only care about everything of her-and not mine;
But you know not-every single mention of her name is a curse to me,
Even though you say everything so smoothly-and gently,
Still I hate knowing that she is your destiny,
One that celebrate the sanguinity of your lips,
One that your adorable being shall desire to keep.
Ah, and not-and not me, and perhaps never be me,
I-who love you with all the discourses, and powers-of my might,
I-who write and dream and think about you all day and night;
I-whose heart grows, and thrives in your very irresistible delight,
I-who in your absence shall scream inside, and be tainted and blurred, by fright;
Ah, Kozarev, you know my being-but indeed! Indeed you know not-everything;
You know my poetry-but one you never read; nor one you ever sing;
You know not what I endure, you know not you are in truth, my heart's darling.

Ah, Kozarev, thinking of her fills my poetic blood with anger;
I am like a dying bird-tearing through the air with mad wings;
From the pain of death-until I am killed in the hands of my hunter-
And you know not, my hunter is her;
She, whom your idyll is depended on,
She, who has stolen thy heart-and left me alone,
She, who is my tragedy, and on top of all-my blood-red misery,
She, who has caused all this gloom, and tragic poetry.
Ah, if only couldst fate tear you apart and blow her away-
And should you turn to me, I shall give you only the brightest of days.
I shall cuddle you, and bewitch you-with open arms;
I shall praise you, and make you mad-with the comeliness of my charms.
I shall love you-and turn to you with my whole paradise;
Where the sun is shining and fills our very souls with bliss;
I shall make you feel none else but wonder and victory;
I shall make you feel but tenderness, and the finest linings-of destiny.

And Kozarev-if possible, I wouldst be glad to be your sun itself;
I wouldst be blessed as one full of courage; and one thoughtful, and brave.
And then, just beautifully as I shall paint this stunning love in your heart-
I shall duly, write on thee all more deeply, and more eagerly;
I shall paint thee as one so insanely handsome as the rainbow-
I shall play your melody on my dearest flute;
And turn alight, everything that was forgotten-everything t'was mute.
I shall be your star, and be your sole, finest future,
I shall be your grace, and for your every wound-the most awaited cure.
And at last-I shall open my very door to you, and make everything delightful; make everything but sure.
Ah, Kozarev, do you know not-how meaningful you actually are to me,
More than I can ever comprehend; nor I can ever desireth myself, to be.

Oh, Kozarev, for you are even more dangerous than this sullen peeping fog,
For you own my heart the most; and be the one it has always sought!
Ah, Kozarev, show me then-how graceful paths of delight can be;
As well how holy and enduring lightness of heart is, and how sacred-suffering may be.

Ah, Kozarev, I love you; for you shall always be my little, little twinkling star,
And thus my poetry is dedicated to you-you whom now stay still afar-
But to my dear heart is a one closest, and the soul I desireth most;
And from whose charms I can no more escape; nor more can I hide.
Ah, Kozarev, just this time-and perhaps t'is time only,
Read now one part of my poetry; and tell me a line-of one pretty loving story;
And just once only-look at me more and give me that lovely thrill;
Listen to me t'is very time, so that you'd finally understand-what I feel.

Plenty insanely

Crying all the time
Not knowing why
Counting times
Dressing a rise
Mind racing all the time
Wondering why
Killing time
Playing
Fighting
Crazy
******
Weapons
Head not right
Cant understand why
Plenty insanely before you die

I laid there staring
at the insanely
bright and rude
fluorescent light
that
mocked my suffering.
The cold concrete
floor felt
good against
my screaming aches.

My body was
pleading with the
Gods for just a
taste of what
had been taken
away.

My bowels were as
controllable as
a teen aged
beauty.

With a ****
I brought my
burning face
toward the cool
silent cold metal
toilet.
Ugly yellow bile
that only a tired
and tortured
body could
produce
spewed forth.

A moan and a wipe
then a hollow knock
on the graffiti
covered cell door.
"You made bail"
an almost robotic
sounding voice
says.

With a thousand tiny
swordsman stabbing
at my face I
managed to smile
into my own bile.
I looked at the
mustached uncaring
face in the
small window.
"You look like Death Pal"
The mustache says to me.

I spit the acrid taste
of day old *****
and ****** resin.
Then rise and run my
sweaty palm through
my hair in an
attempt at looking
presentable.

The mustache opens
the door and
as I walk out
I look directly at the
rogue hairs
protruding from
the mustaches nostrils
and say.
"Death Is Beautiful"

The mustache holds
the door as I walk out.
I'm feeling better already

"Oh Yea well so was my Xwife
look at how much trouble
she still causes me".
The mustache says

Every step
I take down
the institutional colored,
masonic checkered floored
hallway causes
my body
to scream with hope.

I can feel the sweat
roll down my face
but I refuse to let
this mustache
see my suffering.

We stop at the
property window,
I sign a half
of an X where it
says signature.

Then before
I gather up
my belongs
and head
back out into the
night I looked
over at the
mustache and said
"You had a Wife?"

Orangey so tangy loosely
her words flowery so
rustic fun  ******  
the panic straight
jacket going ginger
snaps her ticket
Pocketful of sunshine
in your pocket
****** the maestro
In the stars of the cosmos

On the edge but earthly
Let's go slow
Did we miss the
whole entire glow
"So Tickle me Pink"
The stardust funds
of the trust
Having a light fuse
The picturesque
Fields so mystique personality
Lights up unique

Your word against mine
In a matter of fact were in
It's your cue waves pull me in

If so the sky does it remain
always blue such a variety
Of cookies no outrageous
Time for Oreos
What's inside its outside
Cleopatra's eyes snap away
Like a masquerade
Don't rain on my parade
Love of Virginia innocently
Love is the drug
insanely

Scrapes on her knees
The western front
Ginger Snaps
Those bottle caps and buzzing
honey bees Tangerine trees
Galavant like General Lee
Ginger the gunslinger
She's the singer
eating Saralees

Whats to boot
But getting closer
To the naked eye
to the surface be wise
"Owl Hoot"
So lovely genuinely
He's husky and ruly
Apps Gingersnaps
Exchanging cat naps

Her lips in higher
states of trips

Trying to get there
Bohemian Rapsody
The Queen of the
economy
Photo editing Unicorn pony
Another brainless wedding
We are the champions
What a snitch like a witch
Bad luck switch the lion's den
Topiary timeless good luck Zen
Loud sirens
Drug trafficker morons
The plastic Surgeons
Backstabber persons

Blue jeans snap taking a
Sniff Shiba Uni howls
To be loved in beauty
My Mom Judy good
earth bounty

Tall and sleek every week
Smells of Ginger
no danger
The earth on her cheeks
Can love be any truer  
Into the Gala the apple
of her eye never goodbye

Write insanely
                                        It doesn’t matter what you write
                  Incoherent ramblings or poetic rhymes
                                                          ­Clean-shaven in youth
Grizzled beard in the wisdom of age
                       Wear a distinctive cap
       Strategically placed without a care
                                                            ­ Or none at all
                     but ALWAYS keep MeSSy hair
    Dress up from others throwaways
                                              Or dress to the nines
                                                           ­        Clean suit and all
                                        But most importantly
                                                Write­ insanely

I am currently in one of those moods where everyone who is happy and in love, or has any kind of adorable love-life I really would like to light on fire.

Dear beautiful couples, please get your sickeningly cute relationship out of my sight before I *****! Can't you see I'm busy being bitter and lonely and spiteful?!
Sincerely,
The girl in the corner with the chocolate and the ice cream crying bitterly and insanely yelling crazy (slightly terrifying) things at random happy couples passing by.

I am so jealous of some girls it is actually pathetic and I know that jealousy makes me a pretty bad and petty person, but I think it would actually make me a worse person if I weren't honest and denied being jealous of them. I think that jealousy is just a different kind of pain that you are not allowed to feel because society stifles it, and that is not fair. Anyone else agree with this? Idk, maybe I'm the only one. I just think that as long as you are not "getting revenge" or "acting on your jealousy" or whatever it is perfectly normal to feel jealous and it should not be seen as agony, not a negative feeling that makes you a bad person if you feel it.

There is this guy and even though I don't really like him anymore, he and I are still chatting a little and I see his ****** exgirlfriend every fcking day and I hate her. Anyway, I just feel like I can never be like her and I feel this sense of competition between us everytime I see her because the guy I was talking about dropped me for her when he thought he had a chance to get back together with her and I hate being the "Plan B" and I hate him and I hate her and I hate feeling this much hatred and I hate myself for not being as badass as her, as pretty as her, as cool as her, having an original taste in music that is more similar to his as her, I hate myself for caring this much, I hate myself for being so much less interesting than her, and I just really feel worthless and like I am nothing compared to her. Also she is popular. I apologize if this offends anyone but since I had bad experiences with the popular crowd a while back (a lot of stuff I guess some people might call bullying but I don't want to sound like I'm victimizing myself), I just loathe the entire "culture" and society of "popular" people everywhere. I recognize that is an extremely biased, discriminatory, offensive, narrow-minded and pathetic, generalizing point of view, I just have really scarring experiences with them and I don't even care anymore. Anyway, she is extremely well liked by everyone and she is dismissive of poetry and the art of writing which offends me and she is just really... physically beautiful. Do you have any idea what I would give to be pretty like that? I can't compete. I may as well give up. Sorry for the rant this was a lot longer than I actually realized while writing it, I just needed to get this out I'm sorry.

It is kind of getting worse and I am starting to wonder if maybe I should get tested for dysmorphia. Just to ease my mind about the matter... but I'm scared to find out. If it is a no, then I'm glad I don't have a mental disorder but that means I really am a hideous beast and I really need to get some kind of operation or something to fix my ugly face, then if it is a yes, I have a mental disorder and I really don't want to deal with a disease of the mind because it hurts a lot to hate yourself this much.

I have too much work to do and too little time I'm panicking there is no way I am going to be done.

I have no social life.

I want chocolate.

I need to stop trying to resolve things with chocolate.

I'm in one of those moods where I am sad. I don't know why, I just am. How is that even possible?

I am not good at dealing with loneliness.

There must be a way to feel like you are enough for yourself. I haven't found it yet.

There is something about her
that's not good
for letting go,
so I say this here
on a muggy winter night
as she lays on crags
in the wind,
pulling me closer
to those lovely halcyon stars
but a valkyrie of gin.

so I must say goodbye,
to this war machine of love,
I must lay my heart
back in it's proper place
against those soft cheeks of hers
where my lips were boarders
and my heart became wily.

I hate this letting go,
it'd be easier for us to hug,
searching lips buzzing
for the growing rose of the tongue,
I would rather
have things be easy,
and never have to
not see you go,
but whatever we had,
let its skeleton of love
grow old in the murk,
let its bones be recast
into something of worth,
let my heart reside easily
in the oilyness
of iniquity,
someday soon I'll meet another
and start this war machine
with its grandiose sacrifices,
and subliminal pains,
all over again.

So maybe this was your plan all along,
the great general
pushing the arteries around
like so many toy soldiers,
until the whole thing
was gone,
and there was nothing
to remember,
I really don't think so,
but maybe I'm wrong.

I hope you meet him
somewhere nice,
where you are warm
and flakes of yourself fall into
him like glaciers,
I hope he can become
the beast of love to break you down
again
and make you love him insanely
with only the best kinds of sin;
the kind that make you burn warmly
and feel young and wily again.

I'm just writing to write.
In the mood to write.
Words keep coming into my head but I make no sense of them.
Sentences pop into my mind but they mean nothing.
They're just words.
Why does it matter how many I say?
Why does it matter how many I don't say?
I don't want to be loud anymore.
I don't want to be giggle-y.
I don't want to always have a smile on my face.
I don't want to pretend that everything is okay.
I don't want to put on a fake happy persona.
I want people to see me as a real person.
Not a person with a childlike laugh.
Not an insanely happy or peppy person.
I just want to be seen as me.
A girl who has real emotions.
A girl who CAN handle it when you tell her things.
I'm not immature.
I'm not under-developed.
I'm not a genius.
I'm not simpleminded.
I'm just in-the-middle.
I'm in between, like every one of you.
I know, I'm rambling.
But is that okay?
There are so many words bottled up in me and some of them are so irrelevant.
But I want to say them.
I want to express myself but I can't.
I want to be me but if I am me, no one will understand.
"Why aren't you happy like your usual self?"
"Why aren't you giggling when I light-heartedly mock your laugh?"
"Why aren't you smiling?"
But then.. Maybe there will be that one person who realizes that..
I'm not always how I portray myself to be.
I'm just a confused little girl.

My heart began to flutter,
I actually felt it beat insanely fast,
I wished my lines were smoother than butter,
And I was scared that my heart would be in a cast.

But I had to do it,
To tell her that I thought she was pretty,
So I whispered into her ears - to combat the loud edm beat -
I leaned down, hoping that my voice wasn't ******,

The pretty petite lady whispered thanks.
I was in such a haste that I forgot so say my name.
I hope she didn't think it was one of those pranks,
Upon exiting the venue, I began to ponder whether my attempt was lame.

Oh, I forgot to tell her my name!
I didn't even get her number...
The thoughts rushed in and I realised I was no longer the same :
Confidence and I were on good terms and my shyness was numbed.

Can you recall when we met in a support group?
You were with Isaac who was insanely in love with Monica and her *****
You took me to your home which you gave me a basement tour
I thought to myself we were going to be best friends or maybe evens more

I gave you my ideal and ravishing book
remember how you couldn't stop talking and I knew you were hooked
You and I had our ''Okay'' which became our own flirtatious ''always'' forever
I just got butterflies and knew that some how we would always be together

Can you recall when you said you were cancer free?
You took the tests and god your test results lit up the heavens tree
You are just amazing calling me Hazel Grace
which always just made me laugh and put a smile on my face

The day came of your funeral
everything was just certainly unreal

But then I remembered: That's the thing about pain it demands to be felt

I admit i'm insanely inlove
I invest so much effort
Just to be with you
But your love so dimmed
Like a busted bulb

I exaggerate things i've never been done
And i'm end up hallucinating
I becoming hysterical
For falling deeply inlove

Sometimes i've lost my senses
I forgot to love my self
More than i love you
This love brought me to agony
And i'm starting digging my grave

Not One Hours Rest, Moon Still Standing Nice and Tall

Stars Still Hanging on, You Ride Hazily and Lazily to The City Train Station

Seeing Faces, Seeing Slouched Shoulders, Seeing Tired Eyes all around you

Waiting and Thinking of Home, Observing Yet Constantly Yawning

In No Time You Are Propelled Forwards and Out Through the City Limits

Metal Container Rattling, No Snooze Alarm for the Rising Sun

The City Dissolves into the Back of Your Eyes as You Hit A Tunnel and Enter the Suburban Void

Suddenly Fantastic Splotches of Greenery Drift into Sight, Dabs of Golden Light Float Like Dandelion Spores in The Air

People Move Up and Down the Carriage Schizophrenically, Fidgeting, Never Considering Sitting Still, Not Even Once

Please Just Look Out the Window

Outside Battered Tree Trunks Lay Lifelessly in the Middle of Wondrous Sprawling Fields

Clouds Ripple Insanely Throughout the Horizon, Livestock Enjoying Themselves While They Still Can

What Follows This is a Series of Dilapidated Sheds and Abandoned Roads Leading Up into the Hills so Jagged They Must Have Been Cut by a One Single Colossal Breadknife

All those who do good
are not good nor
are they automatically bad.
All those who do bad
are not bad nor
are they automatically good.
We are insanely complex beings
who need to see each other
beyond good or bad, so
humanity & peace prevails.

"There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love." - 1 John 4:18

a maladjusted little minstrel, rage focused in the pinnacle
least invincible principle of my environment, so biblical
i'm ti-red of the rituals habitual to assimilating individuals
like our voices and choices and self-importance, all cyclical

does your infallible tongue feel hungry and porous
like your horrid torpid fond memory abhorrence
the grossly ****** and unnatural discordance
the inorganic and unfactual that came before us
the dissident power of your bodies' diction in a chorus

swear i'm fine, it's just your eyes, inflected with disinfected distance
a forest of imbellished distrust, derealized with disinterest
making me feel like my lungs are full of fumigated insects
and that's fine, i swear, trust me,
i don't need to convince you of this
i don't want to climb into your mouth and wrestle the truth out
i want to go home smelling of wine and pass out on the couch
and your actions are latent, this is stupidly freudian
stop treating me like a ******* patient,
you're supposed to be my friend

coughing up horrible insincerities meant to be favoring
stop and listen to yourself giving your secrets away, wavering
like a white bible page ripped from the spine of glue on your mouth,
you gave in, balancing on the edge of a risky display
disobeying social conventions and being made prey again today

you’ve got dictionaries of fiction fidgeting with the infectious insecurity ignition
stop and listen
and a thesaurus that can’t arm you with the proper vowel consonant friction
to out-enamor their derision when you pout as you fit the description
never feeling completely comfortable in someone else's kitchen
i wish you would scream and shout but you just keep playing cards now
wish you’d unlock but it stops between your lips slow scowl
swallowing your tongue, the key, he cut out when you kissed
not hateful but afraid
afraid to let it out, ‘kid’
afraid the words would fit too much like a slit smile on a spit
afraid they would just flow like this

an unspoken conviction for viscious fulfillments
and dereliction of indiscriminate sauve depictions of riches
of addictions to princesses and affinity for infinitely angering insistence
of what she represses
expected on the table in an instant

the constriction of the snake in her belly
makes ******* and planning things
seem insanely oppressive
she was getting too old for things to be like this
but they all like it that way
this is why she hates yelling and kissing
always the same old
merry go round

you say poet as if it means perfect
when i know enough people with the bruises to show it
to realize it really means nervous
and i have nothing to show see
except the mosquitoes who ****** my blood
and would be delighted to tell you
what ugly things they know about me

I knocked my knee on the rod under the table.
I put a runner in my tights.
I licked my finger to wash the wound clean.
It stung for only a second.
Then it was as if it never happened.
The ditsy waitress with the blonde bun and bubblegum
was annoying me with the way she wouldn't pick up her feet.
She had a stupid Chinese tattoo on her wrist,
and like most of the world
she thought she could use a band aid as a cover up,
but nothing that obvious stays hidden that long
without being noticed.
And to top it all off, they burnt my tuna melt.

I got weird looks from people who passed,
catching the 50 Shades of Grey title on my book,
disgusted and pondering why
I would ever hold it up in a family restaurant.
The black man was eyeing me up in the corner.
The lady with the pink lipstick in her teeth thought I was erratic and disturbed.
The businessman thought it was merely for attention,
Well
jokes on them,
I did it just to **** them off.

That's when I looked over at you,
You were eating breakfast and a ****** cup of coffee.
It was 4 in the afternoon.
I could see your Captain America underpants
creeping out of your jeans without a belt.
I could see your eyes judging the newspaper headlines.
You seemed almost as unhappy as me.

So I went over and asked if you dropped the pen
I found in my pocket,
and when you didn't even look up at me to respond
I told you it was just a poor excuse to talk to you.
"I respect that,"
you said between bites of your omelet.
You glanced up at me for only a moment,
blue eyes, **** chin
probably expecting me to leave after the prolonged silence,
but I sat there unchanged,
I don't really pick up on social cues.

"You're pretty hot."
I guess neither do you.
I smiled something creepy, because I don't do it that often,
You didn't seem to mind.
Within two minutes you had me laughing,
saying stuff too loud,
and it was the first time
that I think I actually saw myself,
and I don't really even know you
but somehow, insanely
it feels like I already do.

Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--
Before bed,
first thing in the morning,
when you randomly wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep,
Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--
In the beginning it's almost like a new toy or a car,
the excitement when you first download it,
the careful precision with which your profile is created,
how into it you are all day all night,
Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--
Then slowly a pattern emerges.
You get the insanely sporty ones,
running, jumping, swimming, lifting freaking weights,
and you think if I were looking for a personal trainer I would swipe right but no thanks.
Then there are the travelers,
on a world tour since the beginning of time with no permanent address, let alone any potential for a relationship, so you swipe left on instability.
Then there are the 6 packs and no heads,
making you wonder when muscles and treasure trails overrode eyes,
and cringing at the sight of those semi shirt lifted body shots, you swipe left.
Then there are genuinely you're not attracted type,
too much baggage type,
too good looking making you skeptical type,
standing too close to girls type,
reptiles as pets type,
really bad grammar or purging emoticons type,
alcohol is a hobby type,
no ambition or future type,
on all which you keep swiping left.
Every now and then there's the just right type, with the right amount of words and smiles,
sincerely looking for something more than *** or just good at pretending they are,
so you swipe right.
A match...
You never end up talking anyway so swiping on, all day long,
and you realize this is *******!
The only thing that's getting anything is your right index finger,
and there are much better ways in which it too can be put into use.
You realize even after expanding the age limits to highly questionable numbers and including the maximum area in distance,
and proactively lowering your standards,
you still haven't swiped right on Mr. Right.
You realize you aren't looking but rather searching for that one face, that specific personality who already escaped between your fingers like that one cute guy you accidentally swiped left on a super drunk night while eating peanut butter out of the jar,
or that one guy who you thought was perfect so you super liked but never liked you back.
You realize you are searching for a specific person who doesn't have a Tinder profile but lives in the same building as you, who'll never swipe right for you even if he had the chance.
So you unmatch all those stupidly silent, mute, mistakes of matches, reset the preferences to more respectable limits and...
Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--

through the hazy soot filled mist
presented with daunting emotion
of lost abodes and memories

that sensation of bewilderment
expands its grasp and releases
feeling contempt no more

eyes ablaze with dry sentiment
wrongly criticized by odd attention
just enough to keep at bay

the spark of desire lingering
captured but not lonely
with a knowing stance of stare

then beyond stained vision
becoming insanely clear
justice will be had eventually

it catches up with them all

I'll never forget her face.
Our eyes met; both had butterflies
In our stomachs that had
Butterflies in theirs.

Teenage features made
My eyes softer from
Touching them with vision.  
Smiling with every inch of

Herself; slightly protruding
Canines gave her a sense of
Wildness. An insanely
Beautiful wolf.

Mouth slightly open in
Centre at default.
Those lips that women botox
Themselves to achieve.  

Angelina Jolie's half-sister's face.
I became a slightly different man
Then.
Like after a near-death-experience.

After three and a half years together
She still blows my mind.
I can watch her from a distance, and
Contemplate the way her skin seems

So thin over her collar bone that
You wouldn't dare even kiss it
If you could. That, and how I rest my
Face there every evening and thank

Whomever it May Concern
For it all.
I am a man with hungry eyes and
Hands.

Beauty is my ******.
My own strengthening, inspiring,
Comforting -every-day-Heaven-
******.

I will do my damnedest to save you from harm
and wrap you safely up in lust
you who're only a luckless victim
a poor forsaken damsel in distress
tied to the railway tracks by a villain
in one of those black and white movies
I will arrive in the dramatic nick of time
and I shall be the hero who proves his love
when in return you kick me under the train
I'm really just vain and an incapable slave
so you relent and pull me back from the brink

I'll waste no time in rescuing you
your destiny's under my control
there's nothing you can do
no reason for you to get involved
except in relinquishing your body
yet what you do is to shelve
all my plans for today
I'm relieved you know yourself

I'll be there to deliver you from evil
the forces of love are far too weak
you have too much of it to lose to quibble
my advice is to stay put and not to seek
instead you jump into the moral saddle
urging it on so strong my heart goes meek
I repent and promise not to meddle

I'll take you in my arms and we'll escape
giving you a way out when all seems lost
picking up the pieces of your broken reality
what you need is for me to know what's best
to change you into a looker for me
I'm only glad you passed the test
with that sand I got kicked into my face
something you call leather and lace...
nice work... I secretly have to confess

You'll need me to give you a hand
when your slight frame gets knocked down
my assistance in perspective is what you need
the weights of love too great to be borne
I'd hate for yours to fatten and go to seed
and your strong love will feel no pain
when you yank me limb from limb to the ground
and ****** my salvation insanely thin

Rest assured I'll rid you of your past
that awful story of unspeakable depravity
it's easy for someone clean to dust
all traces erased of that shocking poverty
and I'll dress you anew as a lady to impress
forging history in return for a few liberties
but you tore my shoddy papers into a mess
a message that I needed you to fix me
what wasn't broken was you - I was
even more impressive love it's true
for you to sort out my lax assumptive ways

we don't have to be insane to be insanely in

L
O
V
E

Have you ever been madly in love?

The old man broke my reverie.

On the long faded green bench white with bird droppings
he was peering at me through his silver grey beard
looking oddly out of place in that college squire park
where only the dreamers at the prime of youth
would sit between classes to exchange love notes
and steal a kiss when the passion couldn't be reined in.

Have you ever been madly in love? he repeated,
and then as if growing impatient by my silence
mumbled, pausing between words,
like they stung him like thorns
it extracts a price been paying all my life
living with a void no other woman could fill
a commitment that breeds only pain
yet makes me insanely boastful
of being madly in love.

It was recess hour and the benches were being filled up.

How many, I wondered, would still hold hands
when the classes are over.

Half asleep, driving for hours
with Budweiser bottles,
warm from the heating.
The windows were all down,
we were smoking rollies,
all sharing one lighter because the driver
dropped his in a can of fanta.

Next thing,
the roar of an army of twincams.
VTECs, something insanely beautiful,
and incredibly ridiculous,
a convention of petrol heads—
Gardaí everywhere, searching for tax
and insurance. My God, I was in it.
Hundreds of thousands of them,
all excited like children,
the screaming of a million voices,
no exhaustion in the exhaust fumes.

The hills rose around us, the traffic
packed backwards,
expensive cars all sardined in a roundabout.
How loud can you get it?
Can she sing like a canary?
Can she find herself at the Letterkenny rally?

I'm clingy, but I'll never admit it. I'll check my phone every 5 minutes to see if you've replied to something I've drafted numerous times in my head. I'll get anxious when you don't answer me back for a long time, and I'll think to myself maybe you've had enough of me. Yet when your message finally comes, it doesn't matter what you've said because the simple act of replying assures me that you're still mine. At least, for the time being it will. I'll get jealous a lot, but please don't misconstrue it as me tying you down. I won't get jealous because I want you all to myself, no. I want you to be able to spend time with your family, friends, and everyone else in between. I'll get jealous because maybe, just maybe, you'll find something special in someone else, as you did with me. I'll be weary that maybe you'll look at someone just as how you look at me, or your heart will begin to wander somewhere else.
I'm insecure, and it's of no fault of your own. When I say something negative about myself, it's not a cry for attention nor is it me wanting you to disagree with me. Before you, I'll probably never imagine in a million years that you'd be mine. So by virtue of the fact that we're together makes me even more insecure. But let me make something clear; I won't be bagging on myself all the time. I know what I excel in, what talents I possess, the aspects in my physique that work in my favor, and so on. I'm just more vocal about the things which fall in the opposite categories. I'll possess many faults, and I'm not looking for you to fix them. I think when I finally meet you, I'll be more accepting of these faults than I am now. All I'm asking is that you accept them with me.
I know this letter seems to be focusing on the negative things about me, and it's quite a bit to take in... so let me make a change of pace.
I'll always love you. When we're finally acquainted, and we finally begin to personify the definition of love for one another, I'll never need another definition. I've told myself countless times that I would never cheat on someone because I know what that feels like. I'll love you more than I love myself and I know that isn't too great but that's just how I am. I'm going to fall in love with the way your smile dances across your face every time you see me, I'll fall in love with the way you lose yourself int he things you love, I'll fall in love with the way your voice fluctuates depending on how you're feeling, I'll fall in love with the way you say my name, and I'll most definitely fall in love with you so much more. I'll study everything about you, I'll remember the slightest details about you and your life. I'll know what you look like when you're upset without having to say a word, I'll know how you like your coffee in the morning, I'll know exactly how long it takes you to get ready before we go out, I'll know most of the trivial things about you and the rest I'll learn along the way. I pray you'll be able to do the same as well.
If you're still reading, and you haven't run away... I'll probably be sitting across from you looking insanely nervous and insecure. I'd be sitting with my legs folded under me on the chair anxiously waiting for your reaction. On top of that, I'll probably be ready to burst into tears of happiness or tears of sadness.
So to end this letter, I'd like to say thank you. Thank you for giving me a reason to live again, thank you for proving to me that love really is meant for me, and thank you for being my reason to be alive.

Love,
*Your Future Soulmate

The horizon is the impossible goal.

* It is the goal of trying to catch up with the sun, trying to surpass the infinite boundary that exists only from the limitations of the eye.

* It is the goal that takes years of labor and toil, and when it seems like it will soon be over, it always sets itself further out of reach.

* It is the goal, simple and straightforward at present, but winding and demanding the further along the path one goes.

* It is the goal that must be undertaken alone, regardless of how many are on the path with you.

* It is the goal that is always present, even in times of rest, the one that looms over you, stalking you like prey, hunting you when you aren't hunting it.

* It is the goal whose journey many have taken, but none have returned from.

* It is the goal which, after having been attained, is rumored to reward you in ways that will continue to manifest far into the future.


It is the goal that you can never attain, and yet you must cross the horizon.
It is the goal that you must attain, and yet you can never cross the horizon.

* You can never cross the horizon, only perpetuate the hunt for what lies over it.

* You can never cross the horizon, and you constantly remind yourself of this when you insanely continue to run through the toil of the process.

* You can never cross the horizon, but in the quest for it, you are forced to make alliances, work with others to catapult yourselves across the same goal.

* You can never cross the horizon, but the effort to do so leaves you with a stronger sense of self, knowing how you react in the face of adversity, and understanding how the journey shapes you.

* You can never cross the horizon, yet you refuse to quit when each trial bends the bones of your back, when every step shreds the skin on your feet, when the heat cooks and boils your brain, when all the nerves in your being direct your heart to stop, except that one, that lonely one, that one which refuses to quit.

* You can never cross the horizon, and as the sun shrinks deeper, the hunt becomes more and more desperate with every step.

* You can never cross the horizon; in trying, you will only exhaust all of the resources and time that is given to you, all of the energy and strength that was left in you, and all of the creativity and ingenuity that was built in you.


You can never cross the horizon.

Until you do.

And when you cross the horizon...

*The rest is up to you to write...

I get off the Belt Parkway at Rockaway Boulevard and
Jet aloft from Idyllwild.
(I know, now called J.F. ******* K!)
Aboard a TWA 747 to what was then British East Africa,
Then overland by train to Baroness Blixen’s Nairobi farm . . .
You know the one at the foot of the Ngong Hills.
I lease space in Karen’s African dreams,
Caressing her long white giraffe nape,
That exquisite Streep jugular.
I am a ghost in Meryl’s evil petting zoo:
I haunt the hand that feeds me.

Safely back in Denmark, I receive treatment
For my third bout with syphilis at Copenhagen General.
Cured at last, I return to Kenya and Karen.
In my solitude or sleep, I go with her,
One hundred miles north of the Equator,
Arriving at Julia Child’s marijuana herb garden–
Originally Kikuyu Land, of course—
But mine now by imperial design &
California voter referendum.
(Voiceover) "I had a farm in Africa
At the foot of the Ngong Hills."
My farm lies high above the sea at 6,000 feet.
By daybreak I feel oh, oh so high up,
Near to the sun on early mornings.
Evenings so limpid and restful;
Nights oh, so cold.
Mille Grazie a lei, Signore *******!
Andiamo, Sydney, amico mio.
Let it flow like the water that lives in Mombasa.
Let it flow like Kurt Luedtke’s liquid crystal script.
We zoom in. We go close in. Going close up,
On the face of Isak Dinesen’s household
Servant and general factotum. (Full camera ******)
Karen Blixen’s devoted Muslim manservant,
Farah: “God is happy, msabu. He plays with us…”
He plays with me.  And who shall I be today?
How about Tony Manero for starters?
Good choice. Nicely done!
Geezer Manero:  old and bitter now,
Still working at the hardware store,
Twice-divorced, a chain-smoker,
Severely diabetic, a drunk on dialysis 3 times a week.
Bite me, Pop:  I never thought I was John Travolta.
But, hey, I had my shot:  “I coulda been a contenda.”
Once more, by association only,
I am a great artist again, quickly made
Near great by a simple second look.
Why, oh God? I am kvetching again.
I celebrate myself and sing the
L-on-forehead loser’s lament:
Why implant the desire and then
Withhold from me the talent?
“I wrote 30 ******* operas,”
I hear Salieri’s demented cackle.
“I will speak for you, Wolfie Babaloo;
I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.”

Must I wind up in the same
Viennese loony bin with Antonio?
Note to self:  GTF out of Austria post-haste!
I’ve been called on the Emperor’s carpet again,
My head, my decapitated Prufrock noodle,
Grown slightly bald, brought in upon a platter.
Are peaches in season?
Do I dare eat one?
I am Amadeus, ******, infantile,
An irresistible iconoclast and clown.
Wolfie:   “I am called on the imperial carpet again.
The Emperor may have no clothes but he’s got a
Shitload of ******* carpets."
Hello Girls: ‘Disco Tampons!
Staying inside, staying inside!
Wolfie: "Why have I chosen a ****** farce for my libretto?
Surely there are more elevated themes . . . NO!
I am fed to the teeth with elevated themes,
People so lofty they **** marble!"
Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis.

So, I mix paint in the hardware store by day.
I dance all night, near-great again by locomotion.
Join me in at least one of my verifiable nine lives.
Go with me across the Narrows,
Back to Lenape with the wild red men of Canarsee,
To Vlacke Bos, Boswijk & Nieuw Utrecht,
To Dutch treat Breuckelen, Red Hook & Bensonhurst,
To Bay Ridge and the Sheepshead.
Come with me to Coney Island’s Steeplechase & Luna Park, &
Dreamland (aka Brownsville) East New York, County of Kings.
If I’m lying, I’m dying.
And while we’re on the subject now,
Bwana Finch Hatton (pronounced FINCH HATTON),
Why not turn your focus to the rival for Karen’s heart,
To the guy who nursed her through the syphilis,
That old taciturn ******, Guru Farah?
Righto and Cheerio, Mr. Finch Hatton,
Denys George of that surname—
Why not visualize Imam Farah?
Farah: a Twisted Sister Mary Ignatius,
Explaining it all to your likes-the-dark-meat
Friend and ivory-trading business partner,
Berkeley (pronounced BARK-LEE) Cole.
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

Oh yeah, Tony Manero, the Bee Gees & me,
A marriage made in Brooklyn.
The Gibbs providing the sound track while
I took care of the local action.
I got more *** than a toilet seat, a Don Juan rep &
THE CLAP on more than one occasion.
Probably from a toilet seat.
Even my big brother–the failed priest,
Celibate too long and desperate now–
Even my defrocked, blue-balled brother,
Frankie, cashing in his chips at the Archdiocese,
Taking soave lessons from yours truly,
Taking notes, copying my slick moves with chicks.
It was the usual story with the usual suspects &
The usual character tests. All of which I flunk.
I choose Fitzgerald's “vast, ****** meretricious beauty,”
My jumpstart to the middle class.
I spurn the neighborhood puttana,
Mary Catherine Delvecchio: the community ****
With the proverbial heart of gold &
A backpack full of self-esteem deficits.
I opt out.  I’m hungry and leaping.
I morph again, grab *** the golden girl.
Now I’m Gatsby in a white suit,
Stalking Daisy Buchanan in East Egg,
Daisy: her voice full of money;
My green light flashing on the disco dance floor.
I, a fool for love; she, my faithless uptown girl,
Golden and delicious like the apple,
Capricious like a blue Persian cat.
My “orgiastic future” eluded me then.
It eludes me still. Time to go home again to the place
****-ant Prufrocks ponder their pathetic dying embers.
Time to assume the position:
Gazing out from some trapezoidal patch of green
At the foot of Roebling’s bridge,
Contemplating an alternative reality for myself,
A new life across the East River,
In the city that never sleeps.
I crave. I lust. I am a guinzo Eva Duarte.
I too must be a part of B.A., Buenos Aires:
THE BIG APPLE.
But I am ashamed of my luggage,
Not to mention my baggage.
It’s like that last thing Holden Caulfield said to me,
Just before he crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge,
Crossed over to Manhattan without me,
Leaving me alone again, searching for our kid sister,
Phoebe, the only one on earth we can relate to:
“It’s really hard to be roommates with people
If your suitcases are much better than theirs.”
Ow! That stung; that was a stinger.
I am smithereened by a self-guided drone,
A smart bomb full of snide antigravity,
Transformational and caustic.
My meager allotment of self-esteem
Metastasizes into something base,
Something heavy and vile.
I drop to earth like lead mozzarella.

I am unworthy, unworthy in the maximum mendicant,
Roman Catholic mea culpa sense of the word.
I am now Umberto Eco’s penitenziagite.
I am Salvatore, a demented hunchback
(Played flawlessly as a demented hunchback by Ron Perlman),
Spewing linguistic gibberish in a variety of vernaculars:
“Lord, I am not worthy to live anywhere west of the Gowanus Canal.”
By East River waters I weep bitter tears,
The promise of a promised land denied.
I am a garlic-eating Chuck Yeager,
Auguring in, burnt beyond recognition,
An ethnic trope, a defiant Private Maggio
From here and for eternity,
Forever a swarthy ethnic stereotype
Trying to escape thru a small but significant
Hole in the ozone layer above South Ozone Park,
New York, zip code 11420.
That’s right, Ozone Park.
If you don’t believe me, look it up.
GO ******* GOOGLE IT!

And I just don’t know when to quit.
So why quit there?
Work with me, fratello mio, mon lecteur.
Like you, I took the LSAT so long ago.
Why am I not a distinguished American jurist
Asking the one question that seems to be on
Everyone’s eugenic lips today:
“Aren’t three generations of imbeciles enough?”
I am Charly from Flowers for Algernon,
A slow learner with a push broom, swept up in
Some dust from Leonard Cohen’s cuff.
Lenny: a grey-beard loon himself now, singing
“Hallelujah” for fish & chips in London’s O2 Arena.
“Suzanne takes you down, Babaloo!”
At last, I am Jesus Quintana—
John Turturro stealing the movie as usual--
This time in a hair net and a jumpsuit,
"Made of a comfortable 65% polyester/35%
Cotton poplin, you can even add your own
Ribbon leg trim and monogramming
For just the right look to be one of
The Big Lebowski’s favorite characters.
Mouse-over the thumbnail below to see our actual style
(Color must be purple). Style #: 98P, Price: $55.95. On sale: $50.36.www.myjumpsuit.com."
Fortunately, I am a savvy marketeer:
I understand the artistic potential, the venal
Possibilities of product placement. Go with me
To that undiscovered country.
The humanities uncorrupted till now by
Crass gimcrack television ads. That’s right:
******* commercials smack dab in the
Middle of a ******* poem. Why not?
Great literature has always been about
Selling something, even if only an idea.
Hey, **** me, Herman Melville!
We both know the publication costs of
Moby **** were underwritten by the tattoo artists &
Harpoon manufacturers of New Bedford,
Matched by a small research grant from some
Proto-Greenpeace, Poseidon adventure in some
Great white whale-watching swinging soiree.
Murray the ******* K, pendejo!
At last, I am The Jesus, a pervert & pederast,
According to Walter Sobjak—another post-traumatic
Post Toasty, like me, still out there in the jungle,
Still in love with the smell of ****** in the morning.
My bowling buddy, Walter, comfortably far to the right of
The Dude, and Attila the *** for that matter,
But who gives a **** if Lenin was The Walrus?
(“Shut the **** up, Buscemi!”)
“Once you hang a right at Hubert Humphrey,”
Said the streets of 1968 Chicago,
"It’s all ******* fascism anyway.”
That creep could roll, though, and as we know so well:
“Nobody ***** with The Jesus.”
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

INCOMING!
I just heard from an old girlfriend who is miles away,
Teaching school in Navajo Land.
The Big Rez:  a long day’s interstate katzenjammer,
A Route 66 nightmare by car, but by email,
Just down the block and round the corner.
I had previously closed an email to her with a frivolous
“Say hello to my stinky friend.”
It was a total non-sequitur, an iconic-moronic,
Ace Ventura-mutant line from Scarface,
Which may have meant–in my herbal lunch delirium—
That she should say hi to some mutual acquaintance
We mutually loathe, Or, perhaps an acknowledgement that she–
My surrogate Cameron Diaz–has a new **** buddy,
Of whom I am insanely jealous.
Or maybe it was a simple Seinfeld “about nothing.”
Who knows what goes on in that twisted *****’s head?
She spends the next two hours in a flood of funk,
A deluge of insecurity.
A veritable Katrina ****** of self-consciousness,
Interpreting my inane nonsense in terms of vaginal health.

Hey, you want to ruin a woman’s day?
Tell her, her **** smells.