If this is character building
I am looking for something in the one-celled variety
On days like this
I could go Licensed To Ill
Also, to be bred like chihuahua
Wonder what that night was like
Then there are brushes
Being used for spanking
On Tuesday, I may see charity children perform
If auto-correct doesn't make me commit suicide
Half the time trying to slurp back words like so many slippery noodles
It's exhausting
This is not even gay poetry
It's regular, straight, doggy-style poetry
Start judging me by my shoes
And nothing else
I am an empty urn
And you are air
Somewhere behind my third eye
God is hiding like an ancient tattoo
That God, so elusive that there is gender attached
Making x's where o's are, where y's are, where wise arses are
That bouquet of flowers, so strong
It could clean a toilet
Then in an instant
I am full with mono-syllabism
Like go fuck your self
Take your self and pump your self
Then I am back in play
On a roster with less confusing participants
Then you look out the train window
And think about the life that lives out there
In gas stations and fence factories
And that life must suck, no?
I mean, have you ever met a truly happy person?
Isn't it completely sickening?
Go do yoga and make peace with disease over there on some remote island
Then, I am compelled to think of earth as one big island
That is to say a floating rock with atmospheric conditions
Just grinding the space organs
Then I think of how nice a porch is
But everything is a visual with context
I saw these hanging tree tents that looked like little lanterns
Except there were people in them!
Real people suspended in a tent, swinging from a tall tree
And it looks incredible and romantic and peaceful
And do you know what I have learned?
After all these years and all these stimuli being shoved down my throat?
I actually like the picture better
They look better up there to me than I look down on the ground to them
So go up in your fucking tree
And send me a pretty post card
I'll be off in the distance
That flat boring land that you can't escape looking at from your stupid perch
Then I am less judgmental
When it comes to real hobbies
A hobbyist has the world at his fingers
Little trains, stamps, coins, beetles
It's your day job that's killing you
And if you can afford to quit your day job, fuck you, you are an asshole
Seriously, I am saying
If you can quit your day job, you have done something bad, wrong, illegal, evil or stupidly risky
When you leap over millions of ancestors
When you beat that clock
I hope you are cracking it open with a sledge
Gears and springs flying everywhere
Then call me
I like a good function with wine
There are rabbits in my yard this time of year
Real rabbits
This wet wind is not going to stop
It will last forever in this poem
--
4.12.13
I am looking for something in the one-celled variety
On days like this
I could go Licensed To Ill
Also, to be bred like chihuahua
Wonder what that night was like
Then there are brushes
Being used for spanking
On Tuesday, I may see charity children perform
If auto-correct doesn't make me commit suicide
Half the time trying to slurp back words like so many slippery noodles
It's exhausting
This is not even gay poetry
It's regular, straight, doggy-style poetry
Start judging me by my shoes
And nothing else
I am an empty urn
And you are air
Somewhere behind my third eye
God is hiding like an ancient tattoo
That God, so elusive that there is gender attached
Making x's where o's are, where y's are, where wise arses are
That bouquet of flowers, so strong
It could clean a toilet
Then in an instant
I am full with mono-syllabism
Like go fuck your self
Take your self and pump your self
Then I am back in play
On a roster with less confusing participants
Then you look out the train window
And think about the life that lives out there
In gas stations and fence factories
And that life must suck, no?
I mean, have you ever met a truly happy person?
Isn't it completely sickening?
Go do yoga and make peace with disease over there on some remote island
Then, I am compelled to think of earth as one big island
That is to say a floating rock with atmospheric conditions
Just grinding the space organs
Then I think of how nice a porch is
But everything is a visual with context
I saw these hanging tree tents that looked like little lanterns
Except there were people in them!
Real people suspended in a tent, swinging from a tall tree
And it looks incredible and romantic and peaceful
And do you know what I have learned?
After all these years and all these stimuli being shoved down my throat?
I actually like the picture better
They look better up there to me than I look down on the ground to them
So go up in your fucking tree
And send me a pretty post card
I'll be off in the distance
That flat boring land that you can't escape looking at from your stupid perch
Then I am less judgmental
When it comes to real hobbies
A hobbyist has the world at his fingers
Little trains, stamps, coins, beetles
It's your day job that's killing you
And if you can afford to quit your day job, fuck you, you are an asshole
Seriously, I am saying
If you can quit your day job, you have done something bad, wrong, illegal, evil or stupidly risky
When you leap over millions of ancestors
When you beat that clock
I hope you are cracking it open with a sledge
Gears and springs flying everywhere
Then call me
I like a good function with wine
There are rabbits in my yard this time of year
Real rabbits
This wet wind is not going to stop
It will last forever in this poem
--
4.12.13
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