trying to write the **** thing come O/htu stnasdinkad;fwafiohjad
hipfa
adshidf'kahsdfi[o
kdszhjo'zsfhi'jiso­a
k'fphhakzhljf
dhk;dhksj
ad
F
u'cjkckkiubgnhdi f

fCUjhcking FKSCREAM SCRREAM CSCREAM FUFKC **** FUCKU FUFCKFUFD Daf
LETLET IT IT OUTUTUT GOD ******

what the ******* hello

HELLO FUICKING POETRY

IM CRAZY SEANY ARMSTRONG AND I COME TO PLAY

won't get out of my lap
kitty kitty don't you understand?  how very peculiarly profoundly perfect your life became the minute you found yourself locked in this palace?  your freedom of this house

won't you take this life less seriously with me?  I struggle, I learn every day too, I watch the comedies, and your nose wet, rare, square, trying to, let it a llll

go!!  how how how how!  how do you take a man

who takes the world so seriously

and turn him into THE JESTER???? a true and perfect comedian!

perhaps my self entitlement puts me back in the hole aGain!! MUSKRAT

NOTHING, there is the bit of horrible, horrible, stark truth in every joke, the brutality of honesty,


or perhaps the comedy is the hot dog wrapped in a bagel that is absurdity

or perhaps the comedy is the bagel itself and the ****** is the ******* truth that we relate to

what would louis say?  what would jerry say?  what would Chris rock?  and Richy Gervais or however you spell his name?  Silverman?  help me out here, give me a few answers

the audience doesn't lie, and they laugh at the stupidest things, when the artist is outside of themselves, when the comedian isn't even aware of what they are doing, but some sort of ironic twist is born out of nothing...nesss

its getting too confusing, and I'm back to square one, back to my confusions, make me into more or whatever I wrote before

left to perpetual seriousness?  I don't want to believe this, are the average comedians liars and the geniuses genuine?  what is genuine quality really?  put under the microscope it is resentful and pity, and often in jail!

and the cat, rests, sleeps, curls, even as I type and her head, keeps getting pushed to the side over and over again... and never bites, because she has learned that she doesn't have to, the food is provided, and anxieties are only presented by...

silly little things.  Silly, silly little things.  That she makes up in her brain.

placed on the counter a letter of acceptance, for my brother, who I suspect my mother favors

a letter which I've already had, which is now in the past, and now it is his turn to take a chance

and I sit and ponder, with my wine, after showing...spite, in spite of myself

hating myself for not speaking highly of him, confused about how it is I can emerge, knowing that there is something inside of me burning, but the energy does not run on love alone, no, I rely on their support

bothered, hopeless, a prince, nothing is my own, the son of PHD's, working everyday, heavily, work as a way of life, climbing fossilized into the very spirit, the bone, the bone, the bone, to pursue or to desire something other than the hardest of work is frightening, is unknown,

an artist supported by business, working in tandem for years, perhaps the two couldn't work without each other, art in its arrogance and business in its modesty, or perhaps the other way around,

even a site called hello poetry, what of its business?  I am not sure, what of its profits?  not a clue, they could be benefitting off of every word I write, but I depend on their site to project my bits, my uselasssfullglossful sentiments, with notes at the end that gives one an opportunity to be fabulous

fabulous, fabulousness, entry, entress, prince, looking up at the twighlight, rescued by nothing, a rebel with something to lose, a bourgeois without room for entitlement, entitlement being the reward of bourgeois, or perhaps education alone, I can be grateful for

which brings me back to that acceptance letter, and my feelings of spite, then I spat, and I want to confess tonight, that I regret that

for magnificence of spirit, holy grade arsenal of blueberry blossom fantasy folly, laughs at the most inappropriate moments, flan with coconut sprinkles and espresso, rip out my insides, and I'll reach out to you, my love, all we've been through.

the song wasn't meant for you but it turned to be yours anyway, a broken wheel on the freeway, some kind of trust or something beyond whatever people can do, letters, tiny, speckles, frightened under the bridge of a passing train, jumping over puddles, children again

or maybe it was, you insist, insist and I have learned from you that I don't seem to have a god ****** clue, and your light shines a whole light brighter than mine so I'll just have to clutch your hand and let you guide us through the underground, resume's and bits of talent, empty pizza boxes on a radioactive island, stranded

but something is ironic about the whole thing, and in your jacket you look look like a lost little penguin, and the absurdities add up and the question marks leave us with humor beyond anything I've known, question marks that bed and make love, little tid bits of apology that didn't make their way to the trial, now their standing there with feet chained to bits of radioactive metal, the apocalypse came before anyone could punish us, and now the jokes on them, or maybe its just on us, because we just can't seem to stop farting!

romance me

with your

macaroons

la dee da dee dooo

merry setter, merry go round of go-getters, attempting to lurch at the next bit of bread, the bourgeois making their bets, sat quietly at cafe at ate pizza, evening, middle of the day, lost track of time, bull wind, a time lapse of mystery novels all intertwining, at the very heart the mystery of new life, the anxieties building up around it, what's going to happen to it?  

in new york cars pass by and horns honk as the coffee brews and brisk is barely bearable, anxious to hear new news, anxious to get the next job, whats in store, whats in front, a song is thought for the next sell, car lots and cheap motels.  honesty is a feedback loop, existing out of time and space, making its way around the prongs of video games, the memory cards are stashed, and the men don't know where the next card to be had is at

The laptops rest and the lights of sleep purr, the reading glasses rest on top and not a soul in the house stirs, blank walls and blank faces, even frowns as it all brews down, the green light flickers here, the last bit of sunlight is the only constant, echoes from the freeway flicker and draw back a curse, of perpetual seriousness, of stoic enterprise, stuck out of time, once, and only, again

falls

simple

coffee

tastes

good