I'd like to be
Bukowski today,
I'd like
to get a good **** in
before
dusk,
and a good drink in
at some point,
I've wanted some Wild Turkey
more than anything.

A good ****
when done right
without
the spring-loaded
traps of love,
just *******
until your body swells,
can make you come
for days,
and a good drink
is good for washing out
sadness as it pukes dramamine
in your stomach,
and Bukowski for a day
would be a lemon.

This is pretentious
as ****. I am a
pretentious ****.

Hello Kathryn,

You left a message the other day,
I heard the phone ring,
but I didn't pick up;
didn't know how to talk to you;
or why you wanted to talk.

The **** was there to talk about?

I went to an estate sale;
big house,
big cherubs with their fat cherub hips and cheeks
and all that algae caked on their bodies
made them sick
on the front lawn.

I walked into someone else's house,
took what I wanted
and left.

Then I drove to the beach,
and I wanted you to be there,
so I could *******.

I wanted it to be a loud,
hard ****,
one that made me and you both
hurt,
one that made
my **** burn
and your cheeks blotchy,
one that made
you look at me differently
as you pulled your ******* back over your ankles,
slowly over your thighs
and quickly to your crotch;
One that made
your dress
some fabric
and your shoes
some soles;
one that made
you open the door
and just walk down the street
for a smoke
and some contemplation
about what kind of life
you were really leading;
the kind of life
where people sit in cars
and drink
and ****
all day.

I put the car in park.

The gulls sat on the dock,
raining **** on the water,
and I smoked half a pack,
just waiting.

The chaos of my childhood haunts me.

Daddy's fist, mommy's ****** broken nose, streamers of blood, lawnmower catching on fire and the firemen trying to cop a feel of my mother, mommy yelling, me getting kicked out of pop's house, living nowhere for awhile, dumpsters, stumbling drunk into an old sewer, sleeping on ****, ******* in my sleep, waking up smelling stale like ammonia, car accident, fighting the guy who hit us because he called Josey a *****, pop slamming me into the refrigerator, me knocking him unconscious, levelling a knife on him once, fighting everybody, feeling like life was a fight, like i couldn't trust nobody. Even my new friends, brought beef to my house, a kid brought him and a whole bunch of other shaved-head ***** over in a jeep. I came outside with a butcher knife.
now i've got this flock inside of me,
because whenever I feel someone talking ****,
i just want to fight,
just want to react.

I hold all the good things inside of me
deep within,
even the little lambs
with pink, innocent lips
who are suckling and hungry for the thing i was really missing:
love.

This is one of those serious poems
And yet it has nothing new to say
But the poet needs to keep himself busy
And writing seems to be the easiest way

The poet rises up on his soapbox
Because he works better from an elevated height
He screams about organized religion, politics
And stripping away of our basic human rights

Like a magician with a classic misdirection
The poet wraps his moralizing in purple prose
He hits you over the head with one simple point
That he’s forgotten more than you’ll ever know

Around the time of the nineteenth obscure reference
The reader is in awe of his far-reaching knowledge
Then the poet overuses polysyllabic words
Just to prove he went to a good college

And the poet keeps filling up the notebooks
Even though he should have stopped long ago
But the publisher agreed to pay by the word
So unfortunately, there’s four more stanzas to go

Quickly, the release date approaches
There’s one printing, then two, then three
And the poem becomes a hit in coffee shops
Recited by grad students in between bites of biscotti

His face now graces the cover of every magazine
In an explosion of exuberant media admiration
Dozens of talk show appearances are scheduled
For the newly crowned “voice of our generation”

The publisher decorates the dust jacket with blurbs
Complimenting the book’s “dangerously original rhymes”
But it’s nothing more than passing hyperbole
Gathered from a glowing review in The New York Times

Now thousands grasp the paperback edition
And eagerly await the feature film adaptation
Meanwhile, the poet hunches over his typewriter
And commits more sententious literary *******

the archer
               naturally
               likes her,
                       for the pointedness
                                              and the forward ******.