Pretend my words are paint by number.
I don't even want to say anything
I just want to paint it.
This is the closest I will ever get to
Robert Frost.
Nature is secondary.
The tranny who sells me smokes
and the puerto rican who buys me drinks
and the 6 foot 8 monster who works the door
these are my poems.
Besides,
nature seems to ruin
my words.
It is too cold these days to even leave
the house.
Then it is just me and you
and us looking at each other
and an uncomfortable silence
and a throatclearing and sigh.
I want to leave in the morning
and come back late at night.
I want to see the people.
I want someone to give me mead.
People are poems
and my drink of choice
is Ambrosia.
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