dead poets never die

ugly poets write

ugly poems. angry

poets write angry

poems. happy poets

have happy poems.

sad poems are

written by sad

poets. dead poets

write the best

poems. not ginsberg,

thomas, angelo,

whitman or wilde,

but poets that have

no name, have never

written a word on

paper, never had a

book of lost poems.

never got drunk

with other poets.

never argued with god.

never wrote “touched

by an angel” or “funeral

blues.” they whisper

their poems in their

sleep. someday i

hope to be a

dead poet.

i pity the poor capitalist

i don’t remember

all the details but

it was the last day

of my vacation in

san francisco. i

saved all my pocket

change and wanted

to give it all to a

street person.

san francisco has

a lot of street

people. cool

people. i wanted

to make a stranger

happy, when i saw

her. i don’t know

if she was someone’s

mother, what her

name was or why

she was begging in

front of an episcopalian

church but now she

had $38 in pocket

change and could

get some cigarettes

without begging for

them. i hopped on

my plane back to

phoenix and 15

years later i still

don’t know the

moral of this story

but there is nothing

sadder than a rich

man wanting to

rule the world.

violence in me

i want to watch him die.

i will pull the trigger.

i want him to die painfully

slow. i want his son at my

side while we watch him

die. i will tell him the truth

about his father. after he

is dead and all fat and

bloated, we will poke him

with a sharp stick. we will

poke his eyes out. junior

can cut his tongue out. i

will let him cut his father’s

dick off. we will roll on the

ground. it will be a national

holiday. a three-day weekend.

if the violence in me offends

you, oh happy day, it’s my

pain. i didn’t ask you to make

it yours.