last poem added: 12/03/2001

quickie #1 the poetry flows comes out of my nose or rather my head from my mind instead It's easy to write poems about poetry I like to dwell on it so I don't need to write about something else.

wet dream Goldfish swirling encircled in a fog wafting from unknown waters whilst walking whales mellowly meander chairmen of the boardwalks picking up discarded pop cans and listening to the snoring sounds of sleeping people dreaming.

It's easier on TV It's easier on TV the hero smiles no worries about taxes or mortgage payments or missed appointments or airplanes crashing or broccoli in his teeth or feet in his mouth or starving children or dying relatives or rush hour traffic or noisy appliances or paperwork due yesterday or bumps in the night or bumps in the road or flat tires or dirty laundry or hour wages or papercuts or alarms slept through or obligations forgotten or performance declines or oil changes or oil prices changing or stubbed toes or burnt toast or stuffy nose or worries in his head when he goes to bed the TV hero sleeps soundly; I am no hero

blocks of time I can stay awake indefinitely if need be, and sometimes need has been for a while So I'll stay up for a while it's easy to stay up; I have a secret method No coffee or no-doze or sugar or speed for me: All I need is food Any kind of food, or even drinks sometimes. I'm not too discerning A brick of ramen noodles is adequate for about an hour I can buy time in bulk Often ten for a dollar each one an hour and stay awake Indefinitely.

introspecial TOMORROW I looked OUT my WINDOW b u t to my dismay, it was a WINDOW LOOKING IN and so I looked into MYSELF and saw the scrambled eggs that I will eat yesterday. (This one's been around for a while, and once looked a little bit different. To see the original of this poem, click here.)

Disjointed, my poetry flows, not from my heart, not from my soul, not from my life or experiences, but from a tortured mind t r a p p e d in a playground with electrified monkeybars. (This one's been around for a while, and once looked a little bit different. To see the original of this poem, click here.)

electrified monkeybars On and off and On and off flips the switch the electricity crackles through the monkeybars a cacophony of sparks and screams taunting sometimes a live one escapes (This one's been around for a while, and once looked a little bit different. To see the original of this poem, click here.)

ode to a wet Monday Crappy wet Monday You dampen my head Your rain my face does spray I wish I had stayed in bed Icky wet Monday You brought a suprise You wiped my tears away When you rained in my eyes Hated wet Monday I wonder who made you I'd like to make them pay An arm 'n a leg would do Useless wet Monday I wish you were gone There's no reason for you to stay 'Cause I don't have a lawn Stupid wet Monday You dampen my spirit Your rain makes me dismay Every time that I hear it Evil wet Monday You tear me apart You're making my nerves fray And shattering my heart Gosh darn Monday You came with no warning I meant to awake early, but hey, I'll just sleep through your morning.

this is me trying to be deep the road to hell is paved with good intentions the sidewalks are lost, grand possibilities walking on them every step is "I could've ..." "... but I didn't" every crack separating another success averted or a mistake accidently encountered the sidewalks to hell are a solemn walk

It's easy to make mistakes but hard to prepare to do so It's hard to make poems easier when you're not trying Mistakes happen when I try not to make them Poems happen when I don't think about making them A poem is over when it's finished Mistakes last a lot longer

track addict I'm addicted to music or rather my brain is it needs to be fed its constant diet of melodies and rhythms and beats whenever it doesn't hear it remembers destroying the silence A demented dee-jay spinning my lobes, never repeating but rarely ceasing, receding only when drowned out by the tunes outside

quickie #2 I write poems about writing poems it's fun to be so wry and self-aware the hipness flows from my ballpoint pens would I be mute without them?

the machine churns out another one  ready to produce the next  unaware as to what it's doing  or why or how machines has no muses  nor methodologies or motives built to build, not created to be creative the machine churns out another one  ready to make the next  unable to give its product a soul  devoid of life to impart  unhurried, unworried the machine churns out another one

just one more ... just one more before bed  it doesn't take much  might as well, done so much  already, so why not just one more before bed  it's nearly over  hardly realized it started  can't hurt to do just one more before bed  it's past four already  the damage is done  no problem to have just one more before bed  nobody will notice  it's only a little bit  and then there's just one more before bed  and one more and one more  and one more and then  the sun rises.

Is it simplicity masquerading for concise ingenuity or lack of ability that drives my writing for though you may not I know that my poems stink.

um, untitled why do you title your poems? so you can tell them apart? something to keep track of or a way to order them in a book? I don't name all of mine first since few deserve it and second because I stink at coming up with names and third because I already can tell my poems apart

music a maddening calliope of cacophany in my head relentless in its pursuit of my sleeplessness conscripting my thoughts to its evil ends keeping me from my blissful slumber the silence outside punctuated by the notes in my head keeping the rhythm of the thoughts in my mind keeping my eyes open in the head on my pillow.

quickie #3 confusion bewildered blindsided by simplicity behind distracted can't get anything done.

workthink sitting in front of my workstation playing the one last game of freecell that isn't fighting the paper that isn't writing itself I realize the futility of changing lightbulbs since they always seem to go out maybe that's why my old roommate always sat in darkness between the notes of a song a thought gets through my brain is busy now.

I am not a poet I am just a guy  who hears words in his head and writes them down  broken up into lines

quickie #4 earrings, earrings in your ear why the mutilation? poking holes with no fear just for admiration?

the infernal spigot sitting in math class not wanting to be here my mind is already full I don't want to empty it just for more calculus because the spigot between my ears is arbitrary; I open the valve and lose engineering disciplines but random facts about Samuel Gompers stay in.

magnetic #1 taste soft beauty forever as an angel's musical murmuring makes a perfect picture of a thousand worlds with rivers of pretty light which glisten like sacred nectar eternal as if always flowing. flirt with each morning look, yet see the open moon blaze & burn away then every evening dance life naked and celebrate secret animal urges with a frantic pounding whisper it is as beautiful as crimson sugar

starting this without knowing where it's going it leads to whereabouts unknown along the way it meanders pausing as though to give insight on its destination it doesn't matter it doesn't know where it's going either.

wish I wish I had another mouth with at least another tongue I don't think it'd need tastebuds since this mouth would only talk A direct line to my brain, it'd speak the words that run through my head effortlessly articulating the vocals endlessly competing in a marathon around my lobes Stopping the repetition, ending the arguments with myself and others allying my niggling doubts and verbalizing my insecurities, my new mouth would be a perfect impressionist mimicking me in any mode or mood even imitating the vocalists of the songs of the soundtrack accompanying all the words in my cluttered mind

a five-haiku ode to antidisestablishmentarianism Antidisestab- lishmentarianism: You are so darn long Antidisestab- lishmentarianism: It's hard to spell you Antidisestab- lishmentarianism: over-cumbersome Antidisestab- lishmentarianism: rather unwieldy Antidisestab- lishmentarianism: noone will use you.

lakeside the waves roll in and the horizon rolls out to infinity, and you realize that nowhere else matters, that you're nothing compared to the waters ten feet below you and miles in front of you, and though it doesn't matter and you don't matter, you don't care and you just listen to the waves splashing on the rocks and then you almost envy the rocks for their permanence.