Dated 22-August-2001
=======================

Hot breath on my neck,
Bodies pressed against mine,
Moving in rhythm,
To an unheard drum.
Caught in the middle,
Of undulating flesh,
Heading together towards release.

Dated 21-August-2001
=======================

Oh why must all my precious time,
Be spent on meter, phrase and rhyme?
These words I lay out in a row,
My reasoning I do not know.

To speak some old immortal truth,
Or just my inner pain to soothe,
Or maybe just to hear my speech,
And find some wisdom out of reach.

I think that verse and poetry,
Shows lack living symmetry.
Inside my brain must be amiss,
A piece that causes thoughts to miss.

I try to stop, but still I write,
Stanzas left and stanzas right
I cannot seem to scratch the itch,
I guess I’m just poetry’s bitch

• This was saved as “unfinished”, I added the last stanza 2-July-2026 to close it out.

Dated 1-August-2001
=====================

I’m sitting here upon the bowl,
And feeling crap pushed from my hole,
I’m writing verse that seems quite droll,
While sitting on the can.

A stink comes forth from porc’line throne,
I dread to think it as my own,
I’m truly sickened to the bone,
While sitting on the can.

One last hard push, and I am though,
Finally done expelling poo.
I’ve paper work just left to do.
While sitting on the can.

Just a flush left in the going,
oh God, no, it’s over flowing,
Where’s the plunger, I’m not knowing.
While sitting on the can.

Grab the mop and start a swishing,
Really gross stuff starts a squishing,
Ate more fiber, I’m a wishing.
While sitting on the can.

Dated 23-May-2001
====================

I’m gonna die on my 65th birthday

I’m going to be become a beach bum.

I’m gonna live in single room and just spend my twilight years reading

I’m gonna live with my kids in my old age.

I’m going to go insane, and be a ward of the state.

I’m going to win lotto, and live off the interest.’

I’m going to be abducted by aliens.

I’m going to just sit ZEN one day and never come back.

I’m going to grow old,
Other than that,
All the best laid plans in the world mean nothing.

Dated 17-May-2001
====================

Hey Jack?
Where ya been?

Did you finally just
Beat it?

Sorry.

Bad pun.
I had to do it.

A bottle of wine
With YOUR name on it,
Jack.

All for you,
For a story,
A poem,
A bad pun,
For you.

You lead a faction,
Headed to nowhere,
And with you they found it.

No where.

Its all around us,
Everywhere we look,
But we had,
No idea.
Until we were lead,
And shown,
To nowhere.
It was pretty beat.
But it was cool.

There’s still this wine here,
Jack.
Wanna swig?

Jack?

Dated 17-May-2001
====================

I must stop writing poetry,
Do it all day long,
Its just a tad bit better than,
Breaking into song.

I think I think in rhythm and Rhyme.
Couplets, Triplets, verse.
This Shakespeare like obsession, mine,
Getting quite perverse.

Oh well, I guess no fighting it,
Poems I must make,
But if I start to shake and drool,
Kill me for Christ sake

Dated 17-May-2001
====================

I’m feeling a poem,
The words start flow,
The thoughts in my head,
Not coming out slow.

It seems that my family,
Is rearing it’s head,
Saying they missed,
And fearing me dead.

Years of no contact,
Indifferent denial.
And now they’re all talking,
It feels like a trial.

I’m sitting here typing,
Not knowing what’s said,
Just getting out thoughts,
Inside of my head.

My grandmother’s dead,
My sister is gay,
My brother’s in pain,
With nothing to say.

My mother just called me,
All weepy and sad,
I just can’t believe her,
Is that good or bad?

My father seems normal,
But I think it’s a front,
Controlled by his new wife,
A scary, old cunt.

Nice to your face,
All pleasant and smiles
Until you her all the stories,
From the other one’s side.

Dude, I thought I was better,
Things going great,
Why wasn’t I taken,
Made a ward of the state.

Now, don’t think me whiney,
Or bitchy or weak,
Its just that my coping,
Is to openly speak.

Well, time to stop hiding
I’ve a phone call to make,
To tell MY mom,
She missed her mom’s wake.

Dated 17-May-2001
====================

My muse sits on the floor,
Licking her wounds,
Self inflicted.
Like a mother wolf,
Cleaning her cub
Of the filth,
That’s left,
Of the miracle of birth.

My muse came to me,
Came to see me,
Came to help me see,
See my images,
My images of the world,
Images of the world inside me.

She did her job,
Only too well.

Swelling from my mind,
Come the flow,
Of images,
Of life,
Of hate,
Of war,
Of greed,
Of love.

Most painfully of all,
Of love.

Of love I wove my images,
In tones of lust,
And trust,
And loyalty,
And betrayal.

Not bothering to hold it back,
Or bleed it nice,
Or dumb it down.

I tied it into neat,
Busy,
Bleeding,
Bundles,
And showed my muse,
All there was to see.

Her tears,
My purest joy,
As the images she inspired,
Were seen by her,
Felt by her,
Lived and died by her.

She wept,
She wept for no one,
For me,
For loss,
She wept,
And I loved her,
Her pain my reward,
For a job well inflicted.

My muse sits on the floor,
Licking her wounds,
Self inflicted.
And laughs,
Laughs at the absurdity,
Of love,
And everyone’s need for it.

Dated 17-May-2001
===================

Plastic little people,
With their plastic little lives.
Respected by the neighbors,
While beating on their wives.

Sitting on the PTA,
Selling tubber ware,
Always calling handymen,
When nothing needs repair.

Their daughters trading sex for love,
‘Cause Daddy’s never there.
And when he is he’s to Damned drunk,
To show an ounce of care.

Sons are running on the streets,
Muggings, beatings, rape.
Anything to get a rise,
And catching it on tape.

No one cares if you’re happy,
As long as you wear a smile.
Never knowing your thoughts of death,
Living in denial.

It’s certainly a hell on earth,
With a heavenly façade.
A better torture not devised,
By the marquis of DeSade.

Keep up appearances,
Never frown,
Never let the truth be known,
By anyone in town.

Plastic fucking assholes,
Poseur piece of shit,
Just for once you scumbag douche,
Don’t be a hypocrite.