the forest fire (prismacolor marker on sketch paper)

draining the taps

kill the klieg lights capitan

and let's go separate ways

you with the lief tenant

piling huge helpings of

meat into his plate

me with the maids of regret

sunning with the fire dogs

licking up dandelion wine

looking for green belfast

feeling incredibly late

give them all three thousand

year old cannons and let them

fire their names into heaven

scalding jesus with syntax and

the dance fever of the 70's

the Bee Gees delivering the

message while. their smaller

brother. dies unexpectedly one

night and no amount of money

would bring him back to life

let's not do that for too long though

this time wasted won't be given back

and then, and then, and then,

there is the idea that right now

is ok enough

the liar (oil paint on canvas stretched on cardboard)

it's 

not over 

yet/yes 

it is

i may or may not have been here before

but i am sure that this is my last

chance to ever be happy again

you sit on the sink with your long socks

on blowing bubbles into the cabinets

black open graves

i'll take what's behind door number

three thousand and twenty five

for two hundred dollars jack

the lights dim and the air grinds and

leans out of the room as the curtain parts

and everything is fart noise

bone cloud (prismacolor marker on sketch paper)

the arapahoe basin

the grey pillow of sky

tucked into the corner

of the mountain range

an oily smear of road

stretching into the future

where the skiing was

dreaming perfectly content

to live through this day where

bono's voice fills the room

the bucking delay of guitars

the sense of what the world

looked like twenty years ago

standing under the heating vent

not yet ready to show the world

our long, thick, shaved vaginal folds

still not finding what we were

looking for, dogs and drugs,

turquoise ribbed rivers

sparkling caves of blackness

filled with nose horses

riding off into the forever

(blood came out of her blurry face

bleeding the chin of divorce)

straight into the fists of detroit

all better (watercolor on watercolor paper)

oops

this poem wants to fuck a fat bitch 

with bad breath

sober as the moon

with no excuses

this poem has a PHD in european history

this poem takes advil motherfucker

this poem will get your ass killed if you

decide to go into war with just this poem

this poem is a shut in who would prefer to order out

this poem is a forest bee. naked and unassuming

this poem doesn't give a shit about your needs

this poem is very angry at you for leaving

this poem won't be that sad when

the entire world is destroyed to death

this is a bad poem

a very bad poem