A Nice Person
Is there anybody
In this mfing world
Who doesn't own a gun,
And is worth a sh-t?
If there is, he's lonely
And probably insane.
Perhaps a pill would cure him
And make him not so nice.
9-11-13
Absurdity
Walking down the sidewalk,
I felt like such a fool,
An absolute absurdity.
I'm waiting for a bus.
I have a little money
Which I shouldn't have,
A military stipend.
I do not have a car.
I constantly write poems
I cannot get in print.
Well, maybe if I tried.
I publish them myself.
I'm waiting for a bus.
15 minutes more.
Thank god for writing poesy!
There's nothing else to do.
Now at last I'm home.
He hasn't yet come back.
Perhaps I'll live alone.
Is there some alternative?
9-11-13
Crazy Folk
A creepy, crawly country
Covered with tattoos.
Everyone has something.
Crazy people lose.
So much is more important
Than housing the insane.
There's no profit margin,
No financial gain.
Healthy folks don't need it,
A home, a van, a boat.
Republican's don't give a sh-t.
And madmen rarely vote.
9-11-13
A Prayer
Now let's pray for G- -
To the god of the tsunamis,
Infantile paralysis
And senility.
And presto! He'll come
home,
Happy, sound and sane.
Perhaps he wasn't crazy,
But he seemed that way to
me.
9-11-13
The Vagrant
A street person riding a bike
Pulling a couple loads
Reeked of tobacco as he passed.
Oh! So many roads!
And when he topples and dies
Alone on a busy street,
The undertaker or Jesus -
Who's the first he'll meet?
And when he gets to a grave
Or heaven, who'll be there
To recognize or welcome him?
The obvious rhyme is “care”.
Alone in the world and insane,
Not a subject for poetry,
A shave, a shower and a shirt,
He'd look like you and me.
9-11-13
M
They'll pray for the bombings in
Boston,
Write songs for New York City,
But they will not spend an hour
To take an old man shopping,
Toilet paper and cheese,
And food for his seven cats.
It feels so good to offer
(Just like are regular Christian).
But they will not go or even call
To say they are not coming.
9-11-13
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