the Destruction of word(s)

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Match up perfect people
Beauty often is not subjective
And I find it rather to be said by people who don’t have much beauty
I never claimed to have any but I am blunt
Or some might call honest
A certain psychosis seems to come from the people
That are desperate to meet others
And there is some sort of sexual neurosis into kissing new boys
Or new girls if you seem to be on the fence

Our vehicles is the “bestest” vehicle ever
Puts the others to shame well ok not really
Most of these are just the same
And well we have bells and whistles
Or just a simple one depending on what we can push out of you
Some people call the salesman a drug dealers that knows how to up sell
But the salesman never sees these people again (most of the time)

Well if Jimmy does it
I”ll do it
We all know Jimmy
And when he’s on the tv
Doing what he does
Selling the “it”
Even if i don’t need it
I doubt I would ever use it
But I buy out of appreciation
Not out of necessity

Our sandwich is better than the other guy’s burgers
We have meat like they do
We have toppings like they do
But we have personality
Now wait we don’t
Ok well we do have a bunch of dry, unseasoned
99 cent menu
What a value but this is mostly shit
a dollar menuaire (copyright pending)

I must admit I do enjoy that one character
With the perfect jingle
You know it comes on the tube everyday
But i never bought into this
Well just once but I’m the writer
I know what stays and what goes.





When You Meet A Woman

You say what’s true and it often scares you
And you think what no one else seems to think
And well the analysis is when things get foggy
The Doctor and Mr. Dylan are both there playing dominoes
One dead one a zombie not one of the brain eating ones
But the one that plays games with the dead
William Carlos Williams keeps talking about his wife
And Dylan goes on about what he wouldn’t want to do
But I don’t beat around the bush
I want to be inside you
They keep drinking and playing dominoes
And never ask me to pull up a chair
But I already have her shirt off
And she’s on the bed asking for me
To join her
I ponder how the great poets do
But not think it through
Thinking are for the ones that never write many words
And throw their work in the trashcan where it often belongs
My work has been there and I know in the future it will find its way
And well every once in awhile you get one
I’m talking about women not poetry
But they are both intimidating topics
Ones where you have to watch what you can say
And what you may not want to say but it needs to be said
And the professors and students
Spoke openly about sexual embarrassment
It always comes down to blood
I mean writing
Without blood and tears your writing can suffer
And the best poets aren’t the ones busy to make the poetic motion
But the ones fighting, drinking, and finding women
It always comes down to them
And from my standpoint my only skills are
Writing and fucking
Everything else is just for chuckles.







A Killing


I can make a killing if sold my poetry on the web
Like itunes 99 cents for a poem
A customer could control what sort of poem the could have
And I would fine tune it
Need a poem for your wife she has brown hair perfect
Need the perfect love poem to send your brother
He’s a garbage man how poetic!
I could make a killing and hire so many poets to write
And we would churn out hundreds of quality poetry
Handcrafted and a great value
And than Americans would start reading our poetry again
And we would make a killing




The Shooter

Too late to understand what we can never
The paper trail reveals a certain deal of trouble
And we all have unsettling thoughts
And we all write things but when righteousness ruins
No one man can judge others
An obsession for justice but the mind corrupts
And actions are reactions
And well the man was doing what he had planned
He concealed to destroy
And well we medicate and heal
Eventually we all forget what has to be done
Until the next headline












The Minister’s Son

We went to school together
And a friend told me the other night
He was teaching the good word
What about the bad ones
But take the good with the bad
And one day he went sort of crazy
The screaming came from the yard and he had on no pants
And was rather convinced about being a character from the great book
What about all the bad ones










Diners

I can never find one of those diners
That are open all night
The ones we used to waste hours of endless time
Smoking cigarettes, drinking chilled coffee, watching the small tv
And the greasy breakfast menu
It was either going to sober you up or make you sick
That was part of the excitement
New cook behind the counter every week or two
One night we were almost 86’ed
But they brought us an order of hash browns
And the situation resolved itself
in the sort of mindlessness that only happens at 4 in the morning











Is There A Method?

The Blues have a certain method
Most music does unless its improv
But even improv has a certain method
A certain way too approach
And poets some have methods
And some use un-methods or non-methods
But what about the one that reinvents everything
The artist that smashes the sax and call it a symphony
Or the poet that wrote until his fingers bled and called it a series
And well actors use their method to change
But poets are often more fixed in their ways
And this poem follows its own path
And sort of make some points
but ads in those counter points that make it disjointed
and well i try to write the same but it comes out different each time








confessional

i stay up and write the soundtrack to talk radio
and the noises the house makes when most sleep
i never took myself too seriously
the weakest part of the writer is the ego
the writer wants to think what he writes is terribly important
sometimes it is but often not
others never write because what you place on the paper is permanent
some can deal with how every word is like removing a piece of your clothes
and by the end of the poem you are out in a crowd – naked – exposed
there is no hair just body parts – a cock or a pussy
bruises represent the smudge parks or crossed out words
the last time i confessed i had to make an attrition
but this time the out look is bleak
and the world is more difficult than only a couple years ago
and every minute seems to be a means
i never became a monk like i told my teacher in kindergarten
but there is a certain dedication to one’s words
and those words are often troubled with morality and humanity
the business is dirty and my hands are soiled
but one day the submissions will not be returned
a moment where the editors will line up and ask for more
and you tell them you need to drink and be left alone
but it seems so far away and i fear i may not hold on long enough
a friends asks why i enjoy this and i said i didn’t
but it is the only way i can express what needs to be said


















the choice is unimportant if the world is spinning

a troubled writer once wrote--
our choice is almost no choice. if we move too quickly we are dead, we are dead. if we do not move quickly enough, we are dead.

so I think I will not move at all
and in compromise there almost is none
but yet the world turns and in respect for the others
so do I but there is distance to the past
and the news reporters decide to do a live feed
but their words are spoken than forgotten in less than an instance
I say choose not but live
and the world keeps turning
the hospitals keep the dead from being zombies
every day I notice my records collect more dust
elsewhere a dog pisses on his owner’s rug for the fuck of it
and a woman wakes up with bloated stomach
while a male wakes up and hurts to piss
the weather is awful warm and cold at once
but go out the doors and find the reason to choose
the spinning world of another drunk night
puking in a dirty toilet with a shit eating grin
the most powerful person in the world is drunk
because he/she never cares what to do
pure action and no thought of consequence or self advancement
just pure non stop no reason behind a choice
so let the me spin off the light posts
singing the songs of my youth
and the world still spins
and I lay laughing in the shadows
a madman in the alley with a bag of wine
without a choice













WWW.

the worst invention of man is not poetry,
the letter, the rock, the guitar, rock n roll,
television, the automobile, religion, or democracy
but rather the world wide web
the ability makes some not live
but experience
and all the experience in the world
cannot create a sims operating system
that makes a man or woman feel as good
as laying on top of each other sweating and fucking
chat box upon chat box Will Waste aWay your daze
and well I like some things

one has to admit al gore always looks rather bug eyed
and well I am sure he is a nice man
that wants to end global warming and be elected as president
but he credits himself for creating the inane universe
and well all those predators need to prey on young boys
somewhere and well everyone has needs to meet
and we can please them all here with a website
or a chatroom or a message board or blog
but the pimply double-eyed nerds of the universe
will never become the great people they are meant to be
because of the yahoo groups DD server

lets find out the weather
no don’t step outside
go to the website that tells you the weather
lets go to a movie
well I can download the newest Tarantino film before it s out in the theatre
lets go for a drink
no I am waiting for an email
lets live
no I’d rather stay in and check my email
fuck you

Labels: big words, fuck, mod, modern news, modern poetry, modern world news, poetic, poetry, post modern poetry, real poetry, street poetry, words, world