I set my clocks,
Red lights 5 minutes fast
Because I can't deal
With the present,
Knowing now is now.

Writing a poem in lead
When ink is too permanent,
Things that last forever
Stay on your back forever.

A skeptic,
For me, everything is horribly
Technicolor. I am too sensitive,
I get buried by their nerves.
For me, there is no society.
Madonna Mia's ivory skin is
Yellow, and I'm probing for
A vein sunk into the bone.
Poetry, is a wonderful high
And I have been a most
Abusive junky.

Dissident,
Spiritually despondent,
Socially disaffected,
Sharpening to a point
An edge laid dull
Tarnished for years. (months)
The cycle, the old game
Of pushing it away to
Have it stabbing back.
Enveloped in some pure
Faith, real as an open sore:
A prophet in designer clothes
Telling me I've been left
Behind.

Am I starving
Am I drowning
Something is denying me
And I am dying. In Atari,
A push move.

Of all the ways to die, mine
Leaves me with Warm blood
Still, and I wonder, how far
Back this thread goes from
My finger to the past.

I don't know why I hate
Written structure. Never
Meant to be romantic, just
Real (I failed)

Shame,
I've none of my old poison
To swim in, to open my mouth
When I feel so terribly mute.

I can forgive
I can regret
But is seems
I never forget.

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