I'll sing to you, Jenny
I'll let you know
when the war is won and done

I'll carry your books until
all the dirty looks are through
pointing at you

And all your pretty picking
flowers from the their sticky
points of view
would be of no use
to you

This is for you..

Jenny can't can't can't
because she's done done done
'cause she's done
with this one

And I'll just shoot shoot shoot
from my handgun gun gun
I'm not done,
with this one,
I'm not done.

I have nothing but a yellow flower in my inventory.

You're plucking eyebrow hairs and gluing your
smiles to the sidewalk,
and I can't pass idly by
and want nothing more
than to join you.

I need a new, something anew,
some new you to
write about you.

Not that I mind writing about you,
or you for that matter,
but a new
new
you
would be nice,
too.

why?
and how much...?
time-wise, we're looking at
a lifetime
of wrong turns
and late mornings
and early nights
and this with that mixed in
like a combination
of six soft drinks, drank in
less than a minute

eating the edges of the computer screen,
hungry hungry hippos, hungry for
attention and contact and social sedation

take me, shaking with my fingers wrapped around
a vile of my own excrement
my own experiment gone awry and you
are gulping all the fresh air from this
tiny,
stuffed room

a selfish, selfish need to breathe, to live
and plan things and make dates and drink yourself dry,
your skin ashy and such a contrast to
your smooth, angelic
face

Cincinnati

That looks
like
violence,
but he wears it so
proudly and
I find I like the way
his hips
swing
almost like he has a
purpose when
everyone else has lost
or not yet found
theirs.