take a long drag of my face
and pick up a pen
but not before i get my paper out.
today on the toilet i realized
all i ever think about is myself
then i wondered what other people must think about all the time,
if they weren't thinking about themselves like I do.
this pleasant click
is all it took to fix what has been broken for months.
Shaking Hands Under the Tree
magic and sticky
clover dots my face
as i am the earth & insects
the flowerpots of mystery
hanging in your mouth.
Not the Last Conversation with a Ghost
bukowski walked up beside me,
smoking a cigarette and staring at the ashgarden of the graveyard.
i looked at him and said, "hey, do you still write?"
with a flick of his smoking fag he replied, "apparently".
whatever happened to the mockingbird
i asked him
"the same thing that happens to all of us."
after that i gave him half of my peanut butter and jelly
he walked away then.
I believe he was muttering,
"don't write a poem about this".