Faking Bad

In anticipation of my
Evaluation to be declared
Non Compos Mentos
I slept under a bridge
For three days
"Getting into character,"

But on the morning of
My intake interview
My hair fell perfectly,
I mean I looked like
A ******* rock star.
College girls on the bus
Were giving me their
Numbers and my skin,
Which I'd purposely sunburnt
And caked in the finest filth,
Glowed like an Australian
Chippendale dancer named Weegie
And even the female Assisstant D.A.
Who had busted me for vagrancy
Waved her ******* from
The third story building
Of the Courthouse.

No matter how much I
Tried to speak gibberish
Poetry and philosophical
Tracts spewed from my mouth.

Shuffling past the park
I beat eight
Grand Masters
At chess on move 1

Inadvertently I solved
The Phi Epsilom Theorem
By kicking stones
Into an algorythym.

When I arrived they didn't
Make me wait at all.

My caseworker giggled like
A schoolgirl while I told her
Each day was like an endless shift
In a Chinese fish- gutting
Sweatshop and every one of my fellow
Employees was motivationalist
Richard Simmons.
She ungirdled her enormous
**** and as they spilled
Like fishguts onto the desk
She began to howl
"**** me, **** me, oh ****
Me right here in
Front of the open window
On State Street as everyone
Watches me ******* the strongest,
Healthiest, smartest, most popular,
Well-adjusted man in the world.

The rest of the examination was
Also a success.
But as I left the Mental HealthCenter
feeling marvelous
I accidentally bumped
An old woman with the door:
"Watch out you manic-depressive
Schizoid with Socially Avoidant
Features klutz."
-Thomas L. Vaultonburg

it’s weird, i’ve been writing in the box room for over a year, only seeing the apple mac displays and aesthetics... but now, to decrease noise pollution in the house in an attempt to not disturb the cats asking for treats... i took out a dusty laptop with a windows’ formatting... and already i feel like i’m re-writing dostoyevsky’s notes from the underground... the whole oddity of it is pedantically exhilarating: plus i saved wolfmother’s debut on this machine, and trentemøller’s into the great wide yonder.*

this is a typical biography of poets these days:
a. gained an b/a from michigan university in english /
    gained an m/a from stanford university (also in english)
b. teaches creative writing at night school
c. has some prize in literature reduced to trophy handling
    akin to sports' trophies, although
    got the prize without the "team talk"
    of motivationalist macho-ism and buttock spanks...
d. divides his / her time between paris chicago & london
     (rich parents i guess)
but there’s hardly a gritty biography so mundane it
would make people weep:
a. educated... yes
b. self-educated after crap education... yes
c. got a really cool triangular badge
    by being in the elite of those learning to cycle
    (when in primary school)... yes
d. divides his time between the box room, his bedroom
     and the living room, ****** in the garden
     too lazy to creep the stairs while the whiskey river flows
     through the oesophagus valley.