Fourth week of poems

November 21

 

Thanksgiving on the way

Another fake holiday

Yes I do feel this way

No I won’t do what you say

I am my own man baby

I was born this way, baby

I can rhyme and rhyme and be horrible

This poem is unoriginal, inconsiderate, and abominable

I took a stroll through the mid-afternoon streets of Miami

And found soulless eyes in cheap cars pass on by

Kerouac, Kerouac, Kerouac; All I want to do today is finish

A Kerouac book and get my life on with the rest of the library books(total 8 and counting, suckas) Bukowski and Willeford and Hemmingway, I just want to read and be left alone how many times must I spit this out before someone, anyone from the parallel dimension will grant me peace and serenity at this point; shit fuck cock piss goddamnit all to hell and back again, all right? Fuck.

Anyway I want to keep writing and reading and living and breathing and everything is looking up and the future is looking weird and the past is dead and done away with and does not matter anymore.

What was the point of all of this again?

I don’t remember

I don’t care

This poem comes out like a cough from a bronchitis patient

My teacher has bronchitis and a bunch of others are sick, too

It’s all odd as can be

I’m odd as can be can’t you see?

Life is a simple thing but we overcomplicate it

We do that to everything so why not

I just want to have a nice time with a great woman and I just want to work afterwards and live long enough to see everyone with a small modicum of happiness

Is that so wrong a dream?

Am I so wrong?
Am I?

 

November 22

 

My porn hasn’t arrived yet

How long, O Lord, how long must I go on?

This is injustice to the twenty-fifth degree

10 bucks for four different videos and still nothing yet

Goddamnit all

Shit

So what if I pay for porn I like what I like

Plus it makes for interesting stories and what not.

Selah.

Thanksgiving Day, waiting for porn;

Feels too cold and strange, like Santa Claus in the air,

Christmastime in Miami baby we were born this way.

Life goes on, but sooner or later my porn will arrive. Please.

Cazart.

 

November 23

 

Red Dawn on screen

Josh Peck is cool

Adrianne Palicki’s fine as hell(and has a nice ass, too.)

 

November 24

 

I sit here at this computer

With a truckload of books sitting around me

Constant inspiration

Constant simulation

I need to go, go, GO

I feel the need to keep working

To keep walking

To keep talking

To go out and find something in this odd town

Texts are sent out and no one really responds

No one really cares

Kerouac is one of my companions on this long road

As much of a conservative asswipe as he could be

Bukowski, too;

No one’s a saint, not even me.

I’m an evil man, with an evil plan,

To scribble my way into the history books

And make some money on the side, too

Maybe get some whores

Maybe donate it to the poor

Or I’ll just burn, burn, burn

Burn like great big roman candles in the night sky

Dying dying dying all the fucking time my friends

Yet is it a wonder to write rhymes and to live life and to be all right with that?

What’s wrong with living?

What’s wrong with loving?

What’s wrong with loving one’s self from time to time?

What’s wrong with feeling all right?

 

November 25, 2012

 

An alligator rushes by

Shiny razor teeth

Another Everglades day.

 

Gillian Anderson on-screen

Holy Holy Holy

Holiest of women alive.

 

Sleep deprived forevermore

On it goes

Muscles contract and hurt.

 

Peanut Butter sandwich

Library book daze

All-American afternoon.

 

A buzzing fly now

Annoys me greatly

Am I wrong?

 

Kerouac I love

With no doubt

Hate fucking cirrhosis.

 

Coffee stays vein-wise

Brain-wise, no

Life sizzles on.

 

Birds, bees, lambs, jams

I love poetry

And poetry loves me.

 

Beat Generation man

Never really existed

It’s all a crock.

 

Ex-girl hates me

Oh well, friends

I’ll live on.

 

Dipstick poetry vibe

Porn close-by

Bored, Bored, YAS, Bored.

 

November 26

 

Sauerkraut bratwurst

I like the sound of those words

I like sound

I like words

Words without meaning have no rhythm

Rhythm is what makes the world

It’s constant music if you’re listening

And maybe if your ears are clean

Music is life and I love it with all of my heart and soul

Nature is God’s music, if you believe in God

For me, nature and women and beauty and happiness and humor and intelligence

Are the measure of why it’s worth continuing to live on this blasted rock

Godliness is next to Goodness, and I see God in every person; every person is a God, to me at least

Every man’s an angel, every man’s a sinner;

We’re all hideous human angels, so why not stop being serious for once and just laugh and live and love each other and walk the cold cool night streets of Miami

And just live.

Is there something wrong with that wish?

Is it so wrong to just live?

 

November 27, 2012

 

Ten

Words

To

Paint

A

Picture

Of

Perfect

Futility

Indeed

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