born into a bedpan

i wonder
if anyone
was ever
born
out of
the asshole

you know
one of those
freak things

a bizarre tale
but true
nevertheless

even if it's
never occured
in the history
of the world

perhaps there
are some that feel
like they were
born this way

i wonder if anyone
besides me
is thinking of this
right now

surely i can't
be the only
one

well maybe not so good

i can
feel
it
shifting

if
i
really
quiet
myself

this hour
week
month
year

these people
these places

shifting
slower
than
smoke
dissolving
in
a
room
on
a
sunday
morning

this
marvelous
gravy
of
the
present

turning
into
the
proverbial
"good
old
days"

FYI: I Am Lonely All The Time

The other
night
someone
told me
to
dream
sweet,

and later
in bed
I dreamed
of swarms
of
horseflies
and
snakes.

That's
me
in
a
fucking
nutshell:

my soul
thriving
upon
the
flip-side
of
things,

the
gears
within
performing
a
sadistic
masochistic
switch
of what
is
asked
of
me,

so please
forgive
my
not
answering,

forgive
my
absences.

I'd
surely
perish
without
my
empty
spaces.

neither death nor life

people always
complain
to
me
about
writer's block

& i don't understand
this phenomenon

a while back
a good friend gave me this
old typewriter

which i don't actually write on
but one night when i was drunk
i put a skull
that i use as a paperweight
on top of it

resting where
the blank page would be
the empty sockets
stared back at me
the jaw hovering
over the tiers of keys

maybe they wouldn't be
stumped for poems
if this skinless head
greeted them
before
they
wrote

but no, they neither
see death
nor
life

philosophical thoughts while smoking in a blizzard

i walked out
to have
a cigarette

in the flood light's
wide beam
the night air
was filled w/swirling
crystals

they were tapping
upon the surface
of my jacket
&
the peak
of my baseball cap

it looked
& felt
like electricity
was all around

charged particles
much like
the ones
we are made
of

like the ones
inside
of
us

i realized
more than ever
the inner
&
the outer
are
no
different

everything
is
identical

my visible
curls of breath
&
the smoke
i exhaled
the
same

when this
jar-like
body
finally
smashes
open
one day

it'll be
dancing
everywhere

little accidental fists of shit

there
are
some places
on this
planet
that are
obvious
indicators
that
we don't
belong
here
at
all

places
that
scream
that we
we will
not
endure

that
our
lives
are
all
accidental

that
our
ingenuity
only
goes
so
far

mt. everest
for
example

yet
humans
still
dumbly
scale
rocks
shrouded
in
clouds

but there
are other
places
not
so
obvious

right
within
yr
own
chest

the
four
waning
chambers
of
the
heart

that
strange
pump
that
opens
& closes

fueled
by
the
most
unreliable
& absurd
model
of
our
ingenuity:
love

the human
heart

which
eventually
ceases
like
an
engine

whether
it's
fooled
into
believing
it's
fulfilled
or
not

so
tip
back
another
glass
of
wine

quit
fooling
yrself

it
won't
be
long,
you
horribly
mistaken
sons
of
bitches

graffiti between a nightmare & a wet dream

i wish
i could
tear myself
open
&
graffiti
my
own
organs

in hissing
black spray paint
write:
'fuck love'
upon
my
heart

'drink up,
sons-of-bitches'
on
my liver

'keep yr
ashtray full'
on my
lungs

'why budge?'
on
my
brain

'the soul
is
bullshit'
on
my
colon

but
instead
i
graffiti
these
outer
pages

which'll
definitely
outlast
my
innards

but not
really

this
whole
universe
is
something
between
a
nightmare
&
a
wet dream

unsubstantial
as
god