couple tips:

don't try to stop drinking while reading the ginger man by j.p. donleavy


don't try to quit smoking before driving a 26 foot u-haul across the state.


and don't kid yourself schmuck-o.
inane seagull squak and squalor at the brew pub
some sort of soccer reunion from years i wish to forget
for women i wish i had never met
i drink several beers i wish i hadn't had the nerve to
sip whiskey
watch muted basketball replays
wonder if i'm a replay
or what i'd sound like muted
wish i had a coaster underneath me all the time
to soak up all the b, s, & t
read a little slip of the ginger
man enough for me
seagulls squak another pitcher down the gutter
love it
hate it
reminds me of the city dump

now relaxed in smoke and cyber bliss
impossible missions
dark basements
little white pills for stiff muscles
a fine meal for lonely stomaches like mine

too bad about that heart of yours
the one with all the problems
talking to itself
murmuring about that spiral staircase wrapped around the inside of your dreams
the one the rainbows waltz up and down and up again
in the mornings after mamosa and chatter on the last night's sin and squeeze
shameless like sheep's head and onion soup

a drop of sweat on the forehead of some scripture
two oceans lost at a bend in the cliche
paper cliche like the man in the phone booth next to you
your childhood thinks it knows
like the memory of silk
or the taste of mango in the sun
and when i go i hope it's toast
about mid-morning


tuesday's nightstand

i awake
set my coffee on tuesday's

it being only friday the mug falls
to the carpet
it being my old apartment there is
no carpet
it being the past it may not have
happened this way at all

so maybe it fell
maybe it left stains
stains that would have meant something
before i cared
about tomorrow more than carpets
actually by stains i mean girlfriends
by care i mean goddammit!
and by tomorrow i mean maybe it
didn't really happen this way
at all

the weekend walks in
takes off her coats of bullshit
hangs his toast and traffic jams
all over my shabby apartment
makes out passionately with the blender
for seventeen seconds and passes out
under the toilet
this being a love poem
it doesn't really have to end this way
maybe it isn't really love?
maybe it isn't really ending


yesterday's realizations

people get fat because they eat off of forks with four prongs. if they'd switch to a fork with three prongs, presto! 10lbs gone like that. Try it.


i'm good at prioritizing and getting shit done in this life on time because I cracked out on warcraft for however many thousand hours back in my other life.

Reading the newestWorld War 3 Illustrated currently and perusing this strange little anti-corporate culture jamming pamphlet I discovered. Check it out at ofthebeast.com

Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason

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