I'm getting over it

She just broke up with me,
now I'm all alone
with nothing but a jack and coke,
a bottle of patron-
I know that I'll get over her
but I just don't want to think;
so leave me the fuck alone,
let me sit and drink-
somewhere at the bottom of this bottle
I'm sure's the end to my sorrow
and if I don't find it there tonight
I can always try again tomorrow-
So don't tell me that it's bad for me
or what I should or shouldn't do
sometimes the best medicine's a stiff drink
while listening to some Blues

Analyzing Poetry

It always irritated me to no end
when in an English class
they give you a ten line poem,
but ask for ten pages
explaining what it meant;
Oh! His italics meant this
Her-use-of-hyphens-meant-that
They chose this word because...
FUCK! THAT!
If half the poets in the world
were a quarter as smart
as you analyzed them to be
there'd be half as many poets!
Poets write because we have to:
like pissing or shitting
we take in the world around
and expel it onto pages-
and if you think you can
drink my piss or eat my shit
and tell me what I'm thinking
then you shouldn't be reading poetry...
(If you fnid yourself
eating or drinking my excrement:
my piss speaks of alcoholism
and my shit says "go fuck yourself")
 

911

Wrote this in 5th grade with my mom:

On a pretty day in September
the 11th to be exact
cowards hijacked four planes
and put America on attack
While the Pentagon is injured
the Towers are in ruins
three brave souls fought back
and now are national heroes
I cry for those dead
those missing
those families in pain
Things will never be the same
in the good ole USA
My dad is in the Army
I don't want him to go to war
but those cowards if not found
will probably hurt more

You can't squeeze water out of a stone

I won't shed a tear
my heart is scarred
and I fear
that another crack will leave it broken
for good-
So no, I won't shed no tears,
I'll just drink a toast to you-
and toss your memory
onto the growing pile of broken dreams
and bid you one final adieu-
never looking back

My mother would be proud

Skin like a cloud,
soft and white-
eyes like the ocean,
deep blue-
hair like a firestorm,
bright red and hot-
and she curses like a sailor,
drinks like a bum-
Dear Mother, I think she may be the one

Sparks of consciousness

Star light sifted through my blinds
so bright
I couldn't pay it no mind-
I rolled around uncomfortably in the ocean
that was my bed,
too big for me,
alone-
recalling when you were here last-
and our bodies
pressed up against each other
in a bed,
that then,
seemed so tiny,
but that was fine because
we couldn't have been close enough-
tiny sparks of consciousness
wrapped up in bits of flesh and bone-
the barrier keeping souls from becoming one,
but we tried to anyway.
And as the Sun and Moon
did their dance in the heavens,
so did we on Earth-
our consciouses becoming
as close as our bodies
could allow-
and we watched
as the stars faded from view.
Now the clock beside my bed
says 5:47; soon too will these fade from view-
but no heavenly body will keep me
from thinking of you
and I wonder if you see these stars
the same way that
I do

Superstitions and Sex

I must have used all the luck
I had in me,
for I secured the last barstool
in the crowded Manhatten bar-
My drink came with relative speed:
whiskey sour, cherry on top,
but before I could take a sip
I felt my arm pinched-
A cute ginger decked out
in green and clovers had her grip
on my arm
"You're not wearing any green!"
she teased
No, I'm not
"How come?"
I'm not Irish or catholic, I've got
no reason to celebrate
"Then why are you here?" she gestured
at the bar around us-
Cause i'm a writer and writers
need their liquid fuel
I raised my drink in toast to her
and downed it
"Sam."
I raised an eyebrow at her
"Sam, that's my name."
So I gave her mine
"I know a much better place
if you'd like to go."
I took a quick look around me
Is it quieter?
"Much!"

I placed a ten on the counter
and she grabbed my arm
dragging me from that place,
out onto the street, into a cab,
down the road ten minutes
all while she asked me questions-
We got out
and made our way towards
a stone gray building with a revolving door-
This doesn't look like a bar
"I never said I was taking you to one."
I followed her none-the-less
up some stairs
and outside room 321
She unlocked the door and invited me in.

Canvasses were everywhere.
Hanging up, on the floor, on the tables and chairs
and the sofa...everywhere
most of them were of books and a few
were of bookshelves or the sort
"Welcome to my place."
I like it, I like it a lot. Did you paint
all of these?
"I did. I like books, if you couldn't tell."
I could. I'm impressed.
"Don't be. It's just a hobby. Can
I get you something to drink?"
Sure, I'll take whatever you have-
She disappeared, leaving me surrounded
by her art.

After a while she came back
and my jaw dropped-
"I hope you don't mind that I slipped
into something more comfortable..."
It looks like you slipped into nothing-
She smiled and offered me the beer
she was carrying and
beckoned me to follow her,
which I did.

I sat my beer on the nightstand
as I followed her onto her bed,
"I told you I know
a much better place."

We lay intertwined, afterwards, she
offered me a smoke, which I took-
I thought you said this place
would be quieter-
She blushed,
"Was I that loud?!"
It's preferable to being mute
"Then don't complain!" she slugged me
on the shoulder-

She left me on the bed
as she moved to a spot near
the window where paints and a canvas
had been set up
and she began to work-
I finished my cigarette
and closed my eyes, drifting
into sleep.

I awoke some time later, wiping
the sand from my eyes-
she was still painting-
Have you moved since you sat down?
"Hard to paint if you don't move."
I laughed
crawling out of bed I
came up behind her to look at her work-
A grand library was on the canvas
with Greco-roman style columns and
gothic style gargoyles guarding the entrance,
it was architecturally astounding-
That's new, I don't think I saw any libraries
amongst your other paintings
"That's cause there aren't, this is the
first time I've been so inspired."
Yeah?
"It means you have a lot of stories within you."
You some sort of psychic?
"I've not been wrong about this before."
So you're like a fortune-telling succubus or something?
"I've never quite heard it put
that way before. I like it."
Maybe I'll write a story about you-
She got up from her seat and pushed me towards her bed
with a smile,
"I'm sure you will."