Wednesday, May 27, 2009


There is no music but yours.
There is no poem but yours.
There is no story that is not yours.
You are everywhere, man. 
You are on it.
And how about you didn't know 
I was here, but I am here,
and so you didn't see me at first
but then you see me?
Okay? Yes, It's good by me
since I'm locked up in this gun cabinet anyway.
Of course, I don't have a gun cabinet.
Of course, I'm not able to use
the internet or blog.
I don't know what you mean by cabinet
and what you mean by that 
ginger-man-type-ghost that you pass
off as a foggy button on your coat.
I don't trust you anymore, or know you.
You look like a blue and red
cheerleader and you prance
around all loopy with eyeshadow.

My wife is upstairs and my kids
are in bed and nobody is salting
competition with shaved 
pencil lead. I don't even use words anymore!
When you really think about
the conclusions, you are
like starting a new math class!