relevance in lieu of stealing your lines

this pop song runs thru my head
drowning out my thots but that is not
what i want to write . i have thot recently
that i have no more poetry nesting
no more things to write about, life is one big wait
since i turned fifty five. fity fi. can't even git hi.

maybe it's the weed.

describe, describe. this is when i said i'd begin to edit and submit but honestly i can't take the constant rejection i assume would follow. my poems don't seem to appeal to a large audience and why should they. irrelevance is the hallmark of the fity fi + crowd. my demo is cusping into anti matter. oh bs. why go there? it's the boneyard i want. i can't even. go . there.

yesterday they gave me a review at work. to paraphrase, "you're a valuable employee with a bad attitude, here's two percent". does that mean i should give them two as well? sis don't like me too. i have recently recognised that state of mind and it hurts. i can't be poetic about pain anymore. i think the sciatica knifed that out of me. weary of giving as much as i'm able and being told it lacks. of course i'm not perfect, i'm human. why don't you love me anyway?

you are your own authority, someone proclaimed and i stole it. authoritatively. always in a scrimmage with authority, i'd have to say mellencamp's song holds the only truth about that. it always wins. late last life i was wrestling with a snake that came into my cell. i held on to it as it wrapped around my throat, forced itself
down my mouth. like a good whore, i swallowed, turned me inside out.

dear future, the time has come for us to talk about your expectations. why have them?  you are but a shadow of thought proposed when sleep won"t be my lover> mangled on a party line. this iteration is currently a past desire. live it. deepening circles and fleeting words. road trip cancelled indefinitly. still can't spell that word. why don't i want to use an e? the phlegm is yellow and thick, reproducing itself through smoke and capped capillaries, constant distaff, a drone state driven by a psychopath.  thing is today? everyone's a poet. i read it ad naseum on several free circle jerks posing as crit sites. why do i like them so much? crits i mean. i guess it's cuz that means someone took the time to think about it. except they don't .

and can poetry be critiqued, being, as we've been told, such a personal and subjective thing? RESOUNDING> yes stupid caps lock. he says ithink you should just paste a smile on your face everyday and walk around and not do shit. constipation is a problem though. i was like, yeah, that's what the foreman does. i don't feel like using them, but i'm definitely -oo see that?- parenthetical.


gettin a bit o buz, like honey made by ccd bees, and it's half hour till take off. thing is, i don't want to be on time simply because they ask. that's just as fucked as them. i do have better things to do than make money but without it i can only do them for a limited time. once my tarot said i won't reach enlightenment because money money hey honey. so ok, i am the same dis ease and i wonder why things don't change. burn burn and let the schmegma grow in your lungs my little worker, my tiny bee.

cal always said, quit and give up show biz?   s the years creep i understand what he meant in more or less visceral way> one that has images of flaring phoshor krohn galaxies in my gut>

but you love my hair< blonding in these years to the brainless boob i wished to be when i paid attention to politics. now i cross the street mostly because i tend to yell and that's not good for my lungs, where the addiction resides in lovely town centers and suburbs occasionally destroyed by armies of bacteria cide that become less efffective with each launch. we'll just plant new seeds. we'll just grow some corn.

but the years, rather than creep, fly. not like a bee, more like the contrail spillers taking their evening stroll in the stratosphere. this one makes perfect lines, that one a parabola describing a clear lens, another farting bumpy dots that spread out and connect as the solar winds pass through. i find i'm always listening to him, waiting to respond, as if what i say has any bearing on the issue. it's an automatic yes man sydrome. woah, so what if you're a doctor, you're the sickest .


my underarms smell of yeast and onion
i'm hungry and disgusted at once
an electric fan spins behind me, whiting
a distant engine grind, the smack of closing door.
if i were more ambitious i'd make you long for more.
the hay in the pipe with its cattle low, a sharp
morning salivation. the way everything bottled up
suddenly explodes in a stench of death and good meals
left out over week. two day dead duck in a summer wind.
there are no rose scented paths in these hours
except the lifeless hothouse blooms
lining the stones placed
over my head.
































(*^^^^^^

purpose schmerpous/ we're all just transforming bits
of water into carbon and back again. whatever fog
forms is justification enough. if you understand the constituency
matter's really nothing after all.  how very zen of me?
 I SHOULD be paying my bills in the few minutes i have left but
let me do a fiver>





















******






simple things

woah< if you really think on it
even nothing isn"t simple>


why can"t i find commas today
and the negative effects of positrons
on echo location in the twentyfirst BLOCK
might be a good band name but it wont fit in a tweet.


for clarification. i know that i am wrong, it would, inideed fit inside a tweet. but i don't even tweet. sowhy is that relevant?