(2014)
love does not beat on doors, beg at tables. it is always
love me past the edges, stances and masks, deeper than i know things.
man, it’s hard to come down from impossible hopes seemingly
nobody goes mad on purpose, also never is it not shared,
now, I’m no Bukowski but my friends who don’t like poet… except his stuff, tell me they like mine, and I can drink like a drinking machine
god is unwelcome in suburbia, the cells are too comfortable there, & love rests best under stars.
stupid met crazy decided to have a baby or two... what else you gonna do?
why is nothing i can do now. where it went. what that echo means, if anything
the very idea that i could be
lie still. be quiet. please understand what happens so, next time
Fieldwizards and firetops. Wobblybirds on snowflowers. Chilled milk and chowder for the little prince. Mothercake for mumbled thanks.
oh, and how it gets you these bastard assumptions, one or two commonalities
if i stub my fucking toe it’s their fault so say i, and who could argue? you almost
finally, without knowing it was coming, he got to die. it was great. like a birthday party clown, he was equally the center
a few hundred million dying days later he emerges into crazy
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