an infinite formula with infinite possibilities.
And I don’t think I really have any answers
I’d like to think I can create something other than a baby
I’d like to pull something from nothing
Like God, no wait
I would like some justice
A silkworm that spits words
Or a factory
Or a colony of bees
Or a hostage,
Instinctual in nature
A fragmented consciousness, spread like larva over my eyes
it speaks religion fluently,
and politics, and love, and history, and science,
and with excellent diction
it is a leader with a uniform
it is my dog George humping other male dogs and making everyone feel awkward, I think it’s pretty awesome
it seems to like coffee houses
it leeches on humans
it likes being completely crazy
it can have a pretty big ego, and not much talent
it can be your therapist, your obstetrician
and it will deliver
is there a god? Is there poetry?
Can I worship it? Can I make animal sacrifices to it?
Do you think God would have let Abraham kill his son for it? (Do you think the guy that wrote that story would let Abraham kill his son for it, or his daughter if he had one? Maybe his daughter)
Can I use it to commit suicide?
Can I have it for dinner? With a side of broccoli and cheese maybe?
Can I turn it on and off?
Can I lose it?
Can I kill it or bring it back to life?
Can I burn that mother down?
Can I get a bag of it somewhere? Some good shit man, some good shit
Can I stop sounding like Tom Robbins for 2 seconds?
lines don’t add up,
we can’t all be poetic physicists,
I am certainly no scientist or poet
Or a true English major at that
I am just fucking around
I am just doing what I am told
I am drowning in a cliché………..right now
I am a cliché,
and poetry is my witness,
yeah pretty much, at least this poetry is
I am a better waitress than the greatest poet
I would rather deliver the goods than make them
I am no friend to it, a mere acquaintance
We say hello
See how things have been going,
But we never get a cup of coffee or have a drink or smoke weed
If I have to listen to this drunk bitch screaming and crying upstairs any longer I might just start to care
Maybe there’s a good reason, or maybe she is just crazy
That would be the easiest thing to assume. I just love assuming things.
I’m sure poetry isn’t listening to that shit
Or maybe I’ll just get high and not care enough to sit here and analyze the lives of my neighbors as I write this epic,
But she is still fucking crying and I think she just said the word retarded
Which I do tend to say a lot even though I feel guilty every time
I certainly am the first to pick on others for using terms like that’s gay, or dumb slut,
Hey maybe that’s what poetry is, a big dumb whore,
Sleeping with who ever will make her feel pretty and worthwhile
if only for a moment,
Or maybe she just does it cuz she likes the attention,
Or maybe it just feels good
To write poetry
God this bitch will just not stop screaming,
Watching an episode of Angel sounds like a good idea write about now
Cuz pretty soon my hippie will come home
And all that comes out of her mouth is smoke and dreadlocks
I think I have lived up to my name by now
Truly I must be babbling, why else has this name been bestowed upon me
Maybe it’s all Brooke Sheilds’s fault,
her and that damn lagoon
And the fucking 80s.
watered down to a whimper,
thank you paper thin walls
Thank you scotch tape
I’m trying to block the sound, but I live in a college town and nothing is real here
Her problem can’t be as big as the one I have with poetry
Maybe if I throw a tantrum I can choke on something meaningful to say
Or maybe all the things that make sense in my head will finally make sense to everyone else
Or maybe I’ll stop thinking what’s appropriate isn’t,
because letting your vibrator chill in your bed
and people coming over and seeing this hot pink battery powered shlong
apparently is not appropriate
and believe me the reviews are mixed
to exist in my fuckin bed godammit,
It just seems like a good home for it you know? Why does it have to hide?
I think more people should see my vibrator
I’m gonna start just putting it on the kitchen table or letting it chill with the avocados in the fruit bowl
Which actually makes perfect sense considering the real meaning of the word avocado is ball sack
In laymen’s terms
I mean shit, I think they’d be happy together
But no, I am it’s only friend, and everyone else laughs at it or pretends to not be exposed
Because I guess when I expose myself I expose everyone else around me and most people can’t handle that
Because of course the way I see the world is