What’s An Outpatient?

I waited for the psychiatrist in the waiting room
I couldn’t wait
“Are you going somewhere?” the receptionist asked
“No” I said “I mean I’m going for a smoke”
I went out the doors and walked over to the picnic table where the green circle was round the smoke on the sign
I lit a smoke
Inhaled let go
This girl walked up
Immediately I froze
“How are you?” she said and lit a smoke
“I’m fine” I said
Then I thought about what I should say
Maybe I should have asked her how she was
But it was too late
I looked at my smoke
She was cute
“You work here?” she asked me
I laughed nervously “at the hospital?  No”
“Are you visiting someone?”
She kind of laughed “are you a patient here?”
Suddenly she looked very confused
“Well…” she said and couldn’t think of why I would be there
Maybe she was creeped out
I thought maybe I’d settle hear questions
“I’m here as an outpatient”
“What’s an outpatient?”
“Someone who’s been released from hospital but still need some care at the hospital”
“So you just don’t sleep here?”
“Yeah.  I go to programs here.  And see a doctor”
“What kind of programs?”
“Well in one we put things in envelopes”
For awhile she looked at me very strangely
I could not read her
She was a curious one
She put out her smoke and I looked to see that she had hardly smoked any of it
“Are you a spy?” I asked
She just looked at me strangely again
And walked back inside the hospital

Not True

“This is the first time I’ve seen you scared to write” Dave said sneering
“I’m not afraid to write.  I was thinking about Handless” I said
“Why are you writing a book?”
“I don’t know” I said “I wanted to do an epic poem and it turned into something odd”
“What do you mean by odd?”
“Well it’s going to be longer than a short story but shorter than a novella”
“What else?”
“It’s about rap”
“Why rap?”
“Well I wanted to write about the human condition”
“And the artist specifically”
“And the musician especially?”
“And the rapper most especially”
“I don’t listen to much else besides rap.  I wanted to give a sense of what I believe”
“What about who you are?”
“I’ve already expressed that to some extent”
“But you lied”
“No I didn’t.  What are you talking about?”
“Your poems”
“I mean my songs and writing”
“What are your poems”
“My poems are blog posts”
“So you don’t have to tell the truth?”
“Not really”
“What is this then?”
“This conversation we are having that you are writing down?”
“I don’t know.  But it’s not true!”

Follower Poems

Follower poems
Gone tagless
Writing 700 people
Probably all robots
Follower poems
Not in Art or Poems or Writing
Down bitter
Leaving a few curse words
And burying them with flowery sentiments
Getting away with anything
Because I’m a poet
Walk in with a brief case of poems and start handing them out
“It’s poem about Handless” I’ll say “An orgasm free artistic route”
“That’s fucked”
“I think I made it clear it isn’t”
“No I mean you can’t”
“Can’t what?”
“No one will read it”
Is that your only complaint?
And if so how is it a complaint?
If no one likes it no one likes it
But back to you
How do you know it will do badly?

The Living Word

My stat counter is down
It’s as low as my Twitter
My numbers are dropping
And I’m getting bitter
My poems are trash?
Or are their fingers sore?
I don’t care
I’ll write some more
Who am I?
I’m a poet from Mars
Drop a few words in the comments
If you want to say who you are
I’m crazy
A bit off the wall
I stuff an imagination inside it
And chuck you the ball
I’m a ready now
A kind of living word
And anyone who says I’m not
Is being absurd
I write everyday on this blog
Rain or shine
I never reblog anyone else
Every post is mine
I’m a deep poet
I’ll swim to the bottom
I’ll drop death in a river
And say “I caught him”
And dance you
Dance you crazy with crawling worms
And throw the pen to you
It’s your fucking turn!

I’m The Worst

You just laugh and say I’m the worst
I put God in a blood bath and I curse
You just sit and ignore my stories
I get better because I think you think I’m boring
You just fuck off forever like a bird
And I say the rudest shit anyone has ever heard
You just pen a poem about love and ignore me
While I critique the hell out of anyone not free
And dance down the hallways of madness and truth
As you wonder why in Gods name I do what I do
And I die like ballet dancer
Twirling off poems as I die
And you die like a nobody
“I can’t” you say “I’m too shy”

Not Going To Die A Hero

You’re explicit
You’ll say anything
I’m a poet
I imply everything
You’re implicit
Only when you are lying
And I don’t understand
And now you are crying
You’re a fit
You’re a movement of flame
I gave you your fire
I gave you your name
Now I am the trouble
Now I am the pain
You see it as if
I drove you insane
You’re egotistic
I have art
You love your own love of others
I rip all love apart
You finish like a pro
As if going out a door into paradise shit
And I don’t give a fuck about heaven
I’m trying to be the nicest
You are worth 10 dollars an hour
My work is priceless
I wonder what 2 pac thought
You wonder what Christ is
You live on the edge
I live blooming like a flower
Fears and worries amuse you
To no end
Absurdity gives me power
To pretend
And I will always be a human before a hero
And you will die neither
And if it’s any consolation
I’m not going to die a hero either

Someone Is Gonna Come

Someone is gonna come along and knock you out your tree
But it won’t be me
I love to see you happy and don’t care that you know no truth
You are me in my youth
Someone is gonna come along and accuse you of being out on the wing
But I won’t say a thing
Someone is gonna come and say that you are very old to be a child
But I’ll just smile
Someone is gonna come and say that your inner beliefs are trash
But I won’t laugh
And someone will come and chop off my head
For things I’ve said
And you will be embarrassed about being knocked down
And I’ll be dead