Thursday, October 18, 2012


so many short stories
we drag out far too long,
and they die long
before we reach the end.

noway to make friends.

I knew a poet who wrote a poem
about a poet who hated the poem
and killed the poet who wrote the poem
and is now sitting in prison writing poetry
about a dead poet and I  think its the best
poetry the poet ever wrote and the poet
thinks so too and plans on killing me next
for his next book of poetry

having amassed great quantities
of anger and dark thoughts,
thinking back to the time
I should have shot you, but didn't.

all we can do is do what we can do
and flush the rest down the stool.

i am tired now
it has been
a grueling journey
i am so tired now

set a place for me

she's finder food
snack food
yum, yum

yes, at times, i feel guilty.
and then,
there are those times
i feel nothing at all.

if i had known
you were coming
i would have 
baked a pie, or
something similar,
such as a cake.

maybe doughnuts.
maybe not.

maybe i would have
shut off the light
and pretend
there was no one home.

since i am home,
and your are here,
we'll  just 
go from there.

so, what do we do
duke it out,
like John Wayne would do?

tell you what;
lets just grab a beer.

we'll sit back and
let the wives fight it out.

lets get out of here
and give the girls
to fight it out.

what's your allowance?
that much!
damn, you're buying!


  1. Very nice! It's funny sometimes, it's the blues that make me really write, and write and write! Enjoy your day!

    1. Thank you, Karen. Much better day. No 80 mph gusts of wind today.