February 7, 2001

the catalog in my hands reads: Fungi Perfecti therefore I think my poem will gravitate towards mushrooms.

 
One day in a great
grey wood, 
I frolicked,
and because of my 
frolicking
I became hungry.
Alas! 
nothing to eat
but a few scattered remnants of lint in my pocket ... therefore
i surveyed the immediate area
and what should catch my eye?
but a tiny fairy ring
of porcinis.
so i brought forth my
saute pan and commenced to make a fire.
(at this point, you, the reader, are probably wondering why i would have a saute pan, but no food... i was probably lost for a few days at this point, so that's why i didn't have any food)
i cooked these lovely
little pigs
over a blaze
oh, the heat!
i sweat, and then i reaped my reward.
sometimes i wonder why i consider 
diarrhea
a reward.

the end

December 11, 2000

One lonely night in my room on AOL...

 
as the rain pours down my window
   i
think of beth,
sleeping,
     snoring,
picking wedgies in her sleep.
all the while
                         not knowing i am watching 
her...
(oh, how i love wireless video equipment!)
                    then the rain stops...
and starts again...
            wait
just a god
damned
            minute!
that doesn't smell like rain...
              there is not a cloud in the sky...
i think 
of the kids
          in the apartment above me
in an hour they will be sleeping,
snoring,
picking wedgies in their sleep...
   and soon i will kill them
for peeing out their window
        shitheads.

November 7th, 2000

My headache hurts behind my left eye, 
I wonder how it got there,
              probably the headache fairy...

October somethingth, 2000

     
         Doo doo Da Doo
               This poem is like
                   a monkey...
                       not really

             I
               lied.
              It's more like 
                     a poem.
               It has
                      words
                and form
                   and
                        a
                 subtle type
                  of rythym.
                   It doesn't,
                     however,
rhyme. 

September 17, 2000

I'd like to write you
          another
trite love    poem.
          But that's not
my style.
          Flashy shirts, 
and crazy
              hats-
             that's
my style.
        I'd like to write you 
          another
trite     love poem,
         but
I can't
         fall in love
                      with
 you.   I'd like to
        compare you with 
     a
rose,    except
          a rose would
probably
                return
my       calls.      
    What about the
night I
                  Kissed
                   you?
I'd like to cry for 
       my love lost,
but there wasn't
                          enough time
to grow attatched
                     to
                     it.

September 16, 2000

Happy Birthday to you,
             you kissed that other dude,
and expect me to still want you-
            What the fuck's wrong with you?
                

September 14, 2000

If I were a llama
                   I tell you what I'd do
if I were a llama
                I'd spell my name with one "L" instead of two
then I'd be a lama
                    A Buddhist holy man
yes, then I'd be a lama
                 would you be my biggest fan?