I’m Half Your Friend

I’m half your friend

Half someone terminally trapped

I’m half your friend

Half someone who listens to rap

I am half your friend

Half someone who can’t cope

I am half your friend

Half someone who smokes dope

I’m half your friend

Half someone who is always alone

I’m half your friend

Half wrapped up in one of my poems

I’m half your friend

Half someone who doesn’t cry

I’m half your friend

Half someone who’d rather die

Pop Canned The Record

Pop canned the record

While he was still in school

No one ever challenged

A cat that cool

Pop unwrapped a lesson

In a ten page post

Everyone came forth

Said he was loved most

Pop jimmied the election

And came in first

He made the best the best

And got rid of the worst

Pop made the talent show

He danced for a prize

With a massive audience

Believing all his lies

Pop canned the record

While he was still in school

No one ever challenged

A cat that cool

You Will Go Forever Into A Box

Don’t be lame and complain

Nobody will remember you

You will go forever into a box

No need to cry or confess

No need to apologize

Or tell people you love them

No need to sleep uneasy

Or pray for an afterlife

No need to pour bad thoughts

All over your resentful being

No need to cry hopeless rage

Or laugh suicide off in a joke

No need to freak out in anxiety

No need to touch freedom -

Only to have it pulled away forever

You Can’t Write?

Dave went to the fridge

He pulled out a beer and cracked it

He went to the lazy boy

And reclined

“What?” he said

“Nothing” I said

“You can’t write?”

“I am writing”

“No you’re not”

“Whatever”

“Writing is when you do this” Dave motioned with his fingers

“Fuck off” I said “it’s more than that”

“You just want to call yourself a writer.  It’s conceit to write”

“What?”

“Isn’t that the most famous delusion of grandeur?”

“What?”

“That you are some great writer”

“I’m not and I know I’m not”

“But you think and feel great when you write”

“Maybe, but not that I am great

“Ha.  I bet that’s where your happiness stems from”

“It’s not so much happiness as an enjoyment of an activity”

“Whatever.  You enjoy writing like you enjoy eating.  It’s animal”

“Animal?  What do you mean?”

“I mean your writing is from instinct, and instinct to express yourself and somehow survive better”

“Huh”

I went to the window

Outside it was raining

I wasn’t sure if Dave made sense

But that was Dave

Always a question

Never an answer

The cat ran across the floor

It was after a moth

I watched for awhile

And then went back to my computer to write

My mind went blank

You’re Sort Of Sloppy

“You’re sort of sloppy” Dave said

“Not you again” I said “I must not be doing well”

“You certainly aren’t”

“I think I goose egged the last one”

“I think you did too.  What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.  I just can’t write”

“Why don’t you try something easy like your Dr Seuss poems”

“I don’t want to write like that”

“But you do sometimes”

“I do”

“It’s true”

“Stop it”

“Stop what?”

“You know”

“What?”

“You’re being ignorant”

“I’m being critical”

“You are insulting me”

“Well I don’t mean to insult you.  But you write really badly”

“Thanks”

I turned on the television

Fuck writing

The Last Death Poem

There was a poem in my head

About death when I went to bed

There was a poem rattling inside

About death as I laughed and cried

There was a poem in my feed

About death and all the sheep

From a world that is clueless

Can death really do this?

Is delusion so ruthless?

There was a poem in the tool box

When I went to get a wrench

There was a note about death

Stuck with a post-it to the bench

There was a song on the radio

About death and the tornado

I carved death into the skin

Of a giant potato

I put death in a poem all about me

And the death that repeats

And the death that is free

And the death that comes to me

Late one night

When I’m unaware

And not feeling right

The last echoing words

Found only in my brain

The last “death poem”

As “I” go down the drain