Sometimes I just want to eat cherries in bed while watching murder shows. Thinking about nothing but cherries and murder.
Alan Jackson on the box
I don’t know which song
it’s a labour to sit here for long
eradication of the entire human race
that’s what I’ll work on
after I work off my outstanding
-what stephen hawking said-
your dark eyes
are dark out
not like a black
hole trapping things
that move at light
speed, but brown
just the way I
On twitter I follow soGMJWGMme really funny people. Some have many followers and others have little. And some have medium. Uh, that’s just common sense, right? The two funniest people i follow on twitter are @OfNorthAmerica @DavidKlein5.
Unfortunately i’m going to be a jerk and say who my top…
As Poet Laureate of North Manchester Indiana I received recognition
from literally tens of people at the local coffee shop's open mic readings
The mayor awarded me (with pride)
two ten dollar gift certificates to East
of Chicago Pizza, also I was allowed
to ride a bicycle in the towns
"Funfest" parade in front of the mayor's
convertible, and behind the Peabody
nursing home Aqua-Aerobics float
That kind of respect can't be found
everyday, behind every corner
It has to be earned
Earned by my wit and charm and some might argue my devilishly handsome looks
The Manchester Daily Monitor called
me the Oscar Dela Hoya of literature,
"Issuing hit after hit, in a poetic sense of course"
The online article goes on to say "God has blessed,
not only North Manchester, but the entire world with his abilities as a word smith."
Market Street was honorably named Wagner Street temporally with paper signs
and even though my true home town of Warsaw is a few miles to the north,
I'm still some what of a home town hero to the folks in Manchester
Here is my 1st ever poem to be published back in 2003
-icons of the virgin-
icons of the virgin are painted in etceteras on the wall
surface, texture, erosion.
you don’t know that I can hear assembly line
efforts in your voice.
midnight sky of braille and arabic numerals
counting, falling. dot dot dot dash,
immaculate Morse code for V,
not for victory or for varsity
or for virtue.
latitude lines on an uncreated earth
still have their degrees and intervene with longitude
baby born into a cartilage cage
a metaphor for the unspoken
benedictions for the perishing apostle
zodiac, monkey pox, increased rations
assembly line icons of the virgin
etcetera etcetera written on her face
-I grew up-
in a town with 967 streetlights, not that I’ve counted.
the water quality was considered good to drink
but the goose poop and duck poop might make
you think twice about swimming in any one of our lakes.
my great grandfather told me that you could dip your hand into
the water while you were fishing and have a drink,
but you wouldn’t want to anymore.
he died in ’83. he’s buried in the town cemetery near
the lake where he used to fish and drink from.
my dad worked at the Burger King where you can have a Whopper
an astonishing 1,024 different ways.
my mom was an underpaid nurse aid at an old folks home.
she had beautiful skin and blond hair when she started,
and wrinkles and white hair as white as her patients
when she retired.
when they die, they will be buried in a plot of land
about 30 miles out of town,
the only land they’ve ever owned,
well away from the welcoming glow of less than a thousand street lights
(heres a story fragment that will likely never see the light of day. it probably shouldnt be here also. everything is fine)
ive had an absurdly long week. ive had appointments to attend. clients to please. interviews to conduct. set up new appointments so far in the future that i have to write notes to myself in triplicate to remember. going to see a head shrink next week. i will see the psychiatrist six times. therapy can be like dating. if it isn’t going anywhere after 6 encounters, it is best to cut all ties before things get too serious and a break from any point after is going to be messy. two days after doctor visit number one i’ll have a turkey dinner with the family. all penciled into my day planner. the week after, my brother’s soon to be ex-wife and son will come to stay at my house in the city until soon to be ex-wife can get her feet on the ground.
it’s maddening how time blurs into itself. i used to think i was the dictionary definition of indefatigable, but as of late, i feel like a poor and huddled mass.
my business is falling, has fallen, apart. my personal relations have expired. unreturned phone calls, letters, emails. birthdays, anniversaries and other important days fogotten because my day planner is too full with business notes.
i do have a select handful of friends who i break my neck to see, but i think my neurosis have been too much for them lately and has driven their once affectionate social embrace toward me away. friends avoiding me like there is a large sum of money owed. friends avoiding me like i’m asking them to spend their weekend helping me move.
it’s all probably karma.
the business in the shithouse because of unethical dealings in the past.
loneliness because of the callus way ive made loved ones lonely when they could have used attention.
even the weather is shit because i did not embrace the lovely weather when it was here, december saying you should act more kindly toward may.
i cant seem to shake the feeling of regret.
i cant seem to wipe this stupid expression of tiredness off my face.
when i get home i’ll take some pills to help me sleep. my dreams are void of color. faceless phantoms pass while my feet are caked in cement.
airplanes fly over head with no destination.
-The Last Redcoat-
In Seattle, I worked with a girl named Laura
who had a split personality named Deirdre from the UK
and was equipped with the accent to prove it.
Laura got fired for giving her number to a 32
year old patron, who’s wife didn’t appreciate a 16
year old bookstore employee hitting on her husband.
I had a soft spot for Deirdre and didn’t think it was
reasonable that they both got terminated.
Deirdre was far more sophisticated
than her 16 year old counterpart. This lack of
fairness forced me into revolution, but
the British embassy wouldn’t see me.
Tony Blair wouldn’t answer my letters.
The only British person who ever listened was The
Rolling Stones’ Keith Richards. I talked Keith into
talking his band mates into playing a benefit for
their countries lost daughter.
A benefit to send her back to the UK. A dream that
wouldn’t be fulfilled jobless. The Stones ended up
not having the “stones” to play claiming problems with
their agent. Laura and Deirdre got their jobs
back at the bookstore in the stockroom where they
weren’t allowed to interact with customers. Deirdre
has no idea what I went through to try and send her
home. I never bring it up.
Sometimes by the time clock I hear her humming her
National Anthem or Street Fighter Man, then a Boston
Tea Party of sadness goes through my body when I know
how close she was to living
her dream. A dream where dairy milk flows like the
Avon Wiltshire river, and trunks are called boots and
hoods are called bonnets. A dream living under a sky where
the Union Jack flies from every flagpole in the Kingdom.