what I love about this country is the jazz and the blues and

clear skies are the feathers with which the lesser gods tickle their twats and dicks sunshine is the gleam of a puckered asshole

just for fuck’s sake don’t write it about her i know she loved this song but you loved it before her

submerged so deeply in abysmal woes of self he makes his last choice

man that lives to yearn sips at the tit of poison no will, but to die

on a good day a poem is just a death threat to e… on a bad day it is a love letter

I keep coming back just when ya think “there is no

i entered into my junior high poet… with such a sense of excitement to share the craft that i had disc… just a couple years earlier a craft that my gramma had

the Allen Bradley Tower clock looks at me like an all knowing ey… it tells me “you are home you were not born here

long begrimed with dust a floor looking for a broom love me for my scuffs

was afraid of heights until i looked at my back and saw i have wings

when the piano notes are dancing rhythms of candle light it’s hard to hear the fire go out the room cools its quiet wakes your fear

the songs that have been played as it’s neck was tickled and it’s belly was rubbed those at the pawn shop have nightm… of too much Beatles

heaven throw me out but i’m keeping the halo you should have no doubt i am ready for limbo so hold me