[This is an apology]

This is an apology (from me to you)
in its barest and most earnest form.

And though men have strong and stubborn egos
(it's called chauvinism), it is an apology.

You know what, and all those other wh's.
So it's up and out and done (and so are we, here and now).

A Silent Entropy Filmed with Slow-Shutters

And the moon stopped.
And the clouds stopped.
And the wind
_____blowing my hair
___________stopped

when the car stopped.
___________crashed.

Living Along Main St.

The tap dripped before I brushed, and I pissed into a porcelain cleaner than my record.

A night of jazz and hooch, rock and crocks, the wrong people called and no one got fucked. Some fucked up, but none fucked. I came home with expensive grease to a wall I was begrudgingly familiar with: illegal greens. And the thing is not the smoke itself, which I could avoid with a bandit bandana, but a lack of consideration for my well being in these few, small rooms (albeit from a passe posse that satisfy enough, but are not exuberant). I was in good company, but no one to make me cum, and no one I missed.

Almost asleep, I'm aware that I will be cleaning a mess I did not make tomorrow. Cans, glasses, packs and ashes, spills and vinyl--the room to entertain has served its purpose with no supervisor seeing to its cleanliness. Damn it.

Dr. Spangler's Challenge...

A few years ago, I took a class with a professor who loved literature, but saw little in poetry. She thought that the form made all the difference, and that no poetry ever really caught her interest, her mind, and held it. She ended our debate with (to paraphrase) "The only poem I might be interested in...is one that is read both forward and downward."

So I tried.

I AM [.]
AM I[?]
[?] [.]

simple, I know, but give me a fucking break.

Conversation

A raindrop fell from my hair that should've fallen from my cheek,
talking as we were.