you can make a poem out of a everything. I have my keyboard here and a piece of fabric from the bed bath and beyond catalog, fuscia green with specks of yellow -  
    green hazlemint coffee
and jug bottles line the table. I have a sharpie marker that doesn't work, and some cat socks on me- comfortable. a picture of a woman named Marie on the desk ;; a picture of a Shibanawa  illustration of a head with grey blood and the void of now
" sorry"
   it sounds good, and it feels good,  but what is sorry, if there's no accountability --
     I have no refuge in this storm, and you don't know me

I can't fight it anymore , send all your messages;
I'll like and comment and repost, I'll pose in front of a cucumber with the lilting light as it kisses my cheek in front of a bank,
I'll suntan on an Indian gutter as flows of sewage
dance across my back;  
I'll stare at sunsets as they explode in grey nights. I'll cry to myself as your fingers pulse in ***** cement ;
I'll stand naked as you call me a
**** up . I'll keep my phone on silent and reply to a select few - and plug in the modem as it dies down and turns blue. freedom without fear -  the sliding carcass makes it way somewhere in the east -- love grows
in surprising places, mostly piles of ash

This is why I'll never give a **** about people's opinions or trends because when I put my heart out I'm ignored but when I write about a ******* milkshake I get acknowledgement.
the dog rides around the park in its patrol car and
it's always the same. The radio goes bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzxxxxzzzzzzzzzzxxxzz and the sirens go   woo
biscuits for all the good bois

This one means nothing, say it again
It means nothing, like a book full of scribbles and spiders dancing along the wall.
We cry in our dreams when we've lost something dear to us in this reality, like a
good friend or  a  match when the darkness won't relent

Suitcase full of stuff lungs full
Of residue
Off a cliff the rocks sit and pearly doves make their nests it's
too late

Nowhere poem, like a line drawn on a blank canvass - blue and bleeding,
parallel and listless, fluttering towards dawn,
crumbled up papers like the other hundred you spat out.
It's no good,
It's no good.
Zipper lips, cold and frostbitten, alone in a room with a window that won't shut
The voices yell and they tell you to jump out,
5am and nothing changes. 5am and the freaks stare whilst the the locks get locked, and the noose gets tighter
like a curfew. You know what you are

she's finally gone,
and I'm happy for her.
I felt like I was an abusive owner to a kitten feeding it nasty leftovers and barely attending to it when just over the fence was a loving home that would have gladly taken her in and provided the care she deserved. She's probably sad now, but it'll just be for a little while.
sometimes the grass is greener, and I'm glad
she'll be able to find that out,
and find out that she can be loved, just not by the likes of
me
So long, it was something...
<3

If it takes so long. Then it takes all the gas,
Put your foot down. Because maybe there's a way to Chicago

I used to care so much about my hair, having
the perfect fade, if  it grew too much I'd freak out etc, etc.
But this quarantine has made me realize I really don't care.
it's just hair .

I'm growing it out like  Jim Morrison ,
    the end

so she was reading my stuff and said to me
'why do you hide this?
put it out there for people to see'


well I'd like to, but the
      horses would catch me

this is a hunger poem ,

    my stomach is rumbling , and the coyote pelt with its whiskers sits there staring
with empty cut out eyes in the dining room. it was $22 bucks on eBay;
  the stool is twisted at its ankles
and I call for no-one's help.

My nephew has been diagnosed bipolar and so I calm him down;
the rain falls gently on the porch outsides and I drive to a
gas station.

$5 in nickels, the pump greased with sanitizer, I squirt it in.
     a  10th of a tank, and a 10th of
  human heart -- rolling into a dusty willow patch and making no amends.
we all must die
sometime

I like doing pushups  and pull ups
because even though I have the equipment and a full weight rack in my cellar , I always assume that it could be taken away. I always picture scenarios -- alone in the woods with no equipment or nothing else;
try doing a 500ib squat or 300ib bench press then; your muscularity wouldn't even be suited to that environment, it would be dead-weight and quickly absorbed as fuel. & if you've ever used steroids or are currently abusing hormones, your
***** would shrink to a walnut; you've already damaged your body's hormonal system and are now a man reliant on exogenous substances. you're dependent. I
don't want to be dependent. I want to climb up a branch and pull myself up 20 times if I have to, or push my body's weight 100 times ,
I don't need a piece of steel , I need a piece of deer lung.
& as the cell closes in, the newspaper with water bags
make great dumbbells. just be sure to get your vitamins. & watch out for predators in the night

I remember a 90 year old jew at the Getty Center coming up to us in line while waiting for the bus to get to the top of the hill to see
Leonardo Davinci's hand-drawn notes and sketches of 'Human Anatomy' and other classics;
and this guy wouldn't stop talking about reuben sandwiches and Canter's deli, and that you have to a have real Dill pickle, not that ''bread'n'butter ****'. & he kept showing his holocaust tattoo with blue ink and would say how the guards killed his mother and ***** his sister and threw his little brother in a cell for days to come out starved and covered in lice so he was thrown in the chamber himself,
and he kept talking and talking
and talking
blah blah blahhh
  and he shed a few tears and drank his water in the bench area while eating his sad balogna sandwich,
but at least he was done talking. man he was boring.
I had stuff to do, like look at drawings of human penises ,
dissected
and
the bushes were all blue in the courtyard; because it was July

Poetry rarely makes its way into the public stream of consciousness, but it's good to know that it's at least timeless. Words don't age, cheesy saxaphones and traps beats do

Is this a poem?

Or
   is
  this

a poem?



I received a $2,142 return on my taxes and they are due by July.

I
  received a
$2,142
dollar
  return on my taxes and they are due
by
      July


This whole art form could be arbitrary.

were my forum posts on seedy websites
poems?

All goodbyes take time,

swinging
into a doorway,
the critter is unmaimed.
I miss
    my mother

The lightswitch turns off, and so do the shadows that illuminate treachery in my soul.

good   night,
and sweet dreams to the
   ants that cover my bedside cookies. the milk is half
drunk

The tree sits in place forever and never gets to leave

When the saw Mill takes its lover
The shadow falls like heavy linen draped over a small child

It doesn't ask for much,
  just to be left alone in the summer rain so it can remember all
the things it never got
to do

Writing poetry when you have no audience is madness,
It's like the schizophrenic transient babbling about spacecrafts
But the second you put him on a TV show
It's genius

"WHAT'S YOUR WORDCOUNT?
WHAT'S YOUR WORDCOUNT?" he shouted

I don't know, but I make my words count

Never trust someone who doesn't know the difference between jail and prison.
If they tell you they went to prison for shoplifting, or drunk and disorderly they are full of ****;
especially
if they write numerous poems about it. there's only one poem to write,
and it's about sitting in your bed frame watching jerry springer.
The rest are breakfast poems
Stop lying

If this is all it takes to bring down a civilization, then maybe it should collapse
modern humans are weak , and the 'primitives' would be laughing at how pathetic and far man has fallen. Like a wolf sadly glancing at the pellet-filled
chihuahua barking tethered from a fence. It was lost a long time
ago

he sits down in the lobby and the tv is playing some show, there are also stacks of magazines on the table
  after about a minute and thumbing through the stations with the remote and eating complimentary breathmints the bearded man with a green neck approaches, and he has jewelry hanging from his nose
"Are you Sebastian?"
he says calmly and nicely
"well yes I am!"
"well okay then, nice to meet you, why don't you have a seat over there"
as he points to a pristine barber shop chair with bright red lapels and that smell of lavender.
Next to the seat is a petite girl with a bettie page hair do and traditional rose tattoos on her hips
and floral designs lining her shoulder, you barely notice.
"Okay, we agreed on the yellow
  snake with bubbles to signify your dog's passing correct?"
he says to me
"yes, yes we did"
"Well okay then! Let's get started!"

He starts, and it's the gentlest ***** you've ever felt, and the Joy Division pumping through the speakers sets you at ease.
A mother with her kids and a face tattoo of a dagger strolls in; on her lunch break, she schedules an appointment to have her back scalpeled with the design of a Christmas tree so as to be ironic because she's really a satanist; but it's pagan anyway so no-one cares.

    After about 2 hours, my artist finishes and wraps me with sandwich plastic and rubs hemmoroid cream all over the yellow snake. It's beautiful.
"You sat like a champ! Here's a lolly for you"
it's a green lolly and I **** it; it really tastes good, and I go home and admire my tattoo in the mirror for hours
and talk about it to all my friends who have the same yellow snake. It really makes me feel like I belong

It's not enough to be a good writer or poet anymore
You have to be a savvy business man as well; really sell yourself.
Get that Facebook account and Instagram primed with the right photos and have your Snapchat story good while posing over a balcony in Dubai,
really have your abs showing, and flex your biceps.
Have your book sitting atop the makeup canvass as you sell your product, and make sure the lighting is ideal, and make sure you post bi-weekly on YouTube and include the ad-code for 15 percent off,
Also look at the analytics to deduce your audience: Jamaican maids with blue pantsuits
Be savvy and cutthroat, and remember *** sells, but not at much as surface noise, so open your mouth and say.........,.............

I had a dream that people were huddled over my poems and discussing their content and really involved and almost arguing and laughing and really getting into it, and that I had some validation, but it was my imagination, one of those
Crazy fever dreams when it's
5 am and you're delirious and half awake.
I don't mind, it just means I have the
Auditorium to my self.
I set the matches on the table along with the gasoline; I'm tired of the circle ****.
The flies shall speak, and they shall simply buzz around the *****
cake in the hall  reserved for spectators

"WHAT'S YOUR WORD COUNT?
WHAT'S YOUR WORDCOUNT?" he shouted

I don't know, but I make my words count

It's 4:10  and the crack heads are awaking.
The streetcar rolls down the street and slithers in rust,
The ragged gypsy prepares her pajamas, the innocent nun
folds her silk white underwear and stares at the morning sun,
The alcoholic collapses in the dirt,
The satanist cries with a teddy bear, the transgender watches SpongeBob,
The child plays with grass,
The ****** eats stilts,
The dog dances in carpet,
The god praises
Jehovah
All lights illuminate,
And the crowds are transfixed. It's a communion
Of liars and all will be hungry
What a shame,       What a
waste
At least we have prayer

I remember ******* on her massive jugs and feeling her body's undulation as the fingers went deeper.
I licked up every last drop of her, and the blue light cascaded down on our bare bodies
After 2 hours I fell back into the recliner and made my self an
OJ
She was like a dream in heat, and I had no where to be. We both sat in silence in the cool heat and the seconds ticked by like melting ice in October

I feel like Trevor in uk82
****** and full of industrial glue
Breaking windows
And slashing tires
Robbing homes and setting fires
Swazi on the head you don't give a ****
The world treats you like a boot's imprint
Alone in the cell you can't breathe
The warden cries evermore,
And blood gushes from your slashed veins and the littered head of
tyrants
Roll down a hill to hell

I remember the nights in paisley shirts with my friends
Matt and Nate driving to San Diego and LA and Frisco and playing old velvet underground tunes or originals about hopping trains or Eliot Smith.
I miss those days, and I remember the scorched guitar that we got from a burned down house that still played perfectly and that we named Lucille. Everybody was awestruck by that guitar.
And I remember sipping beers by the Volvo at 1am laughing and kissing drunk girls who faintly cared for the music, but it was all about the music, ALWAYS about the music. And the crowds would applaud and we would fight on stage and flip tables like idiots and get kicked out, then inevitably park outside a knoll and stare at the timeless sky.
those days were formative and made men into men. Meandering along lost roads searching for purpose when everything seemed so bleak. We didn't know the direction, it merely manifested itself in front of us like ethereal plains, and when times got tough we stood tall,
when there were only a few options
we stood tall,
When the flame was all but extinguished,
we stood tall.
It was our only choice, no one taught us anything,
the pursuit towards glory was only a dream
but we chased the glimmer into madness

They call it Hurricane because it turns your insides into a hurricane.
My dead friend called it '*** ****'
my other dead friend called it 'brewski', I call it stuff to get you through a miserable night.
Netflix and cartoons and icecream pops
I drive to Sav- On and collect my stamps
The world has five more years then Its over.
That's a Bowie reference
Sorry for wasting your time

Little blue baby feet are crawling towards you and the door is shut
GOO GOO GAH GAHH
It ***** on your blood and shrinks your body down to a prune,
The feeding season musnt
Be disturbed

Stop liking my throw away poems, you might as well just tell me you don't care what I say
Now this is a poem

Flapjacks and cream
Flapjacks and cream
The lonely mouse skitters into an old boot

I remember the **** who who would give me a ******* everyday after middle school

Why am I laughing with myself right now
It's like that scene in the Joker
It's all so funny
And I hear a couple *******.
I throw an orange at the wall and **** out the window
.
Cut me up with your knife,
I've got the scars to cry over and damp lamps do not forget.

3 stories down and it's over and I HOPE it's
messy

1 2 3 4 5
1 2 3 4 5 6 Sven
1 2 3 4 5

There was no toilet paper but there was sandpaper on discount and the newspaper was free
The hobo had on a mask while his hand outstretched for coins, I gave him a $5.
I liked his beard, and as I exited
I saw cars lining the street. They were going to big bear. The first pancake house was now open.
And It couldn't wait

Crying when you haven't cried in months feels amazing and euphoric
It wouldn't be nearly as good if it happened every day
I really needed that

This is like my journal now haha
The dove swims
upstream

I just wish you would stop persisting with this relationship.
You know its doomed, there's no compatibility, we're going to fail etcetera etcetera. And I tell you this so as to save the trouble of endlessly getting burnt and disappointed and you blame me for it?
It's not my fault you refuse to wake up when I already have

Flooded by false hope,
the flowers can faintly breathe;

Your talk isn't enough to sustain me
I can't feel the warmth of words or their touch
At the end of the day i live in a ****** apartment in the middle of nowhere
With barely any food in the fridge with a cat that doesnt work and a car that is on its last legs with no insurance and am unemployed and losing my mind and sit under a dull lamp with nowhere to go
Thanks for having tried, but it is an illusion, and it is a facade and I'm not playing anymore, the game is
Rigged and hopeless, and all I have left in my cellar is some
rope

It's gonna be one of those nights, I feel it in my stomach, I feel the self pity and loathing. I don't care if it makes me look like a *****, I feel it and it's painful.
I'll probably cry a bit too and listen to sad songs. I have my big bottle of Jack just for this occasion. I'll get through it, but it never gets easier. Just let the pain envelop you
Let yourself feel, because you know you've been hurting for a while now and were just looking for a little
Reprieve
now's that time

I just want to live inside poetry or in the night of a Van Gogh painting.
Everytime I step out into the world and am greeted by a sad cashier's face or a **** lining the cement or a guy throwing a slurpee into a schoolyard or politician talking at a camera or a lady digging for coins or a bomb exploding in a plaza it makes me realize what I hate about the world,
It's the world

they used to say writing poetry was a very girly and wimpy
endeavor, but it's actually quite the opposite. It's very
masculine and takes courage;
where else can a man vent and be heard without being judged for being too sensitive ?  if more men wrote poetry there would be far
less suicides.
keeping it in is a fool's errand. you will inevitably blow , and you'll be the source for another poem: cascading red down  a sepiatoned
couch
the stoic man had no chance

you could write 20,000 poems and you would still be boring to an insulting extent.
Ishmael
wrote 1 millions words
and still no one cares . I don't count my turds as art either, or it would be up in the millions now too.
be honest with yourself . it's time to get a job as a transcriptionist
at the
  law firm. they're in the billions of
words

made some burgers , **** that was delicious

**** daniel
daaammmnn

damnn Daniel,back at it again with
the kicks
I see??/

daaaaamn

I wish I had some coleslaw and a coke--   I have green juice and  lays

stop getting in a writer's way
the more you chastise him and belittle his work and tear up his papers and smash
his keys and pour petrol on him
as hes typing
  and poison his coffee
and put rat poison in his smokes (more at least) and stomp on his head  in the morning as he rubs dust from his eye , you'll only encourage him to write more
and next time you'll be in it and it will be the part
  of the
glory hole servant in a run-down truck stop
in Baton Rouge

just go **** your Egyptian kiss *** lover boy
I don't care.
You'll have to do a lot more to ever make me jealous,
like leaving me alone
when I need space

blah blah blah

the enlightened shrine sits atop withered disaster zones like toppled fortunes among
Hebrew scholars.

Donald trump.

a wind storm overtakes the nursery and a thousand perish like sickly flies-
2am in baltimore; the newscaster speaks
"IT'S A TOUGH ONE"

stained glasses with velvet tips, you bleed out into a cavernous emptiness;
if only
  lies made for better entertainment- instead we
die mercilessly and
unloved, and
   un inspired