8.

lots of gas is leaking
from my car.
why can't i elope
with random people

I see in other automobiles
I pass. maybe I should go
buy a pack of reds with
my paycheck money.

or maybe I should
buy some blueberry haze.
would you smoke it?
I know you would.

I might hide in a box.
a cardboard box.

7.

it is 3 PM.
how many more hours do i have
before I take my Seroquel so it can
sedate me. it shivers down

my spine and numbs up my leg
and then it tells me
"goodnight."
you are going to be calling me

back sometime today.
we will discuss how stuff sucks
and maybe even get
philosophical.

i have idle sex every moment
with this machine it seems.

6.

when I think of you
all these stupid political arguments
with my father in his library
seem so pointless.

I'm afraid to punch
a wall, but I really want to.
bruise and disease
infect everything

no matter what. when I
think of you I remember that
we are all just fast floating
butterflies or autumn leaves

or hot air balloons
or high speed jets.

god bless whatever
horrible brick building
we decide to hold up
today or for the next

two thousand years.
calendars: i say burn them all.
there is no need for time
anymore.

this might sound bleak,
but today I was a victim
of road rage
and I showed a man

my middle finger and he was
surprised, but then he did the same.

4.

the great depression continues
on and on and on forever;
not really a black hole,
but it seems like it.

AAA batteries
will power this omericon machine.
the factory-made sugar cube meals
I stuff into my mouth

never really seem to do much.
this is the end of my flat square junkyard world:
a personalized television screen
and another television screen in the rear.

there isn't a bank holiday
or day off work for this festivity.

flanking around the forest
as wide as we can go:
our holocaustic cavalry.
not for you,

but you probably know
that thick meaty beef flesh and flesh
and flesh over bones
of which I speak.

I stayed in the first floor closet
only a little line of light
peaked in
but even then

the star of our solar system
faded into infinite purple black.

2.

from the uncertain
library desk
on which i write
on this thursday night

comes spontaneous
never ordinary
completely genuine jazz:
made in omerico.

always entertaining.
the fruits of our labors
were those seedless watermelons
born of our long and narrow tropical island,

that sandy public speedway
beneath the ocean dark.

1.

I chose instead
to live in an island fortress
as a reclusive king.
my phantom world war armies

met the slow slanted shredding
of cheese,
which is then frozen freezer cold
into some boring motion picture.

I couldn't paint.
I could barely even draw.
but in daydream imagination
and nightmarish nights,

I would look towards endless piles
of arson torched orange hay.