I passively attack delicate matters with sledge hammers and smash them like windows on golf courses with seven irons on Sundays.
I speak in ridiculous oxymorons to juxtapose the reality that we are surrounded by elected morons who go off of unconfirmed evidence they supposed.
I often hide in the shadows cause I hate to expose the fact that each waking moment adds inspiration for my prose.
A writer with secrets only my notebook knows
Like shredded CIA documents filed in top secret rows.
My blood line blotted and bottled from a stranger, Ive never seen anything stranger--like allahs son Jesus raised in a manger...
These lies only grow.
Forced into an ubiquitous mystery of misery, I stare down and walk aimlessly
Off center I begin to spill coffee in my hungover state like a struggling poet
Tattered leather couches, wandering souls, headaches--I have no idea where my house is.
Slicing through butter like hot knives through sticky sausages heated by microwaves.
I allude to obscurity and fill up on verbal obesity served on silver platters
Often dwelling on things that dont really matter...or do they?
My house is now falling the noises the clatter, it bothers me, it shatters my brain.
Into pieces
And when that happens I get so excited I prance on sofas
like Tom Cruise on Oprah
I look like
With fleeting feeling I get thinking there is hope--uh...
...I really dont know
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