To the drunk idiots- A Craislist poem-Chicago

People live in the apartments above and around the new (yuppie) bar.
Please shut the fuck up.
It's 2:00AM, I'm trying to sleep, and you really really suck right now. And so do the Rolling Stones.

Fuck You.

Lust and Kisses - a Craigslist poem-Fargo

Should have left the canyon that night.
Too buzzed on Tequila. lol
We eventually figured out how to completely destroy a unique gift.
Odd, since it's what we had always desired...as chldren and lost souls.
Be well.

in admiration, yes, for he,ee

who is this ee cummings guy, who
thInks he is s o spec
ial that his name
need


not

be capitalized?
And have you read his poetry?

GOODNESS!

His punctuation skills

are a t r o c i o u s

Nipped in the Bud - Craigslist poem

Its funny to me how you reacted.
I just was going about my day and YOU followed ME.
You're going through a battle, having to remind yourself constantly that it can't happen.
I hate to be the one who makes you falter.
So I say, dating is pointless and love isn't real.

Don't let her go for me.

I will break you.

A it poem doesn't about make me sense.

If I
it hate
weren't people
for and
babies, the
I'd stupid
be things
a we
nihilist. do.
If I
it hate
weren't gun
for control
the but
second feel
ammendment, it
I'd is
be necessary.
a I
constitutionalist. just
If don't
it like
weren't cooking
for ground
hamburger, chuck,
I'd it
eat makes
red me
meat. gag.

Looking For the Girl Who Once Lived In Carbondale- Craigslist poem

I am the guy who had very long hair and a
black corvette
with a blower coming out of the hood.
I said you looked like Janis Joplin
I was married at the time and wanted you
bad
I own a home in Texas now
and would like you to come live with me
I hope you are out there

Non Attractive Guy Needs One Night Stand - Written From Craigslist Personal Ad

I'm by no means the cutest guy
but i would love to have a

NO

STRINGS

ATTACHED
relationshiP with

someone.


I'm 5'7 160 lbs,


blondish hair
with blue-green eyes.

It would make my day!

Poetry can bring every man closer to God
so long as they open their heart
to the Great iamb.

IN CELEBRATION OF THE 100TH (OFFICIAL) POST AND CALL FOR REJOICE FROM IDLE MINDS or TO THE INTERMITTENT FOLLOWERS OF THE STRANGELOOP IDEOLOGY.

Families baste while desperately

grasping

still, like stained glass gestapos

unbalanced
and
apprehensive.

A momentous occurance

we say.

Clap why don't you?
lighten up would
ya?

Pull the lever and

smile

for the 100th post.

hip hip

You’re calm in your element, like a coy fish among plastic Buddhas.
You strut with a lustful hip pop, eyes locked on mine.
You smooth your blouse and flash a faux smile.
Your tag reads Jessica,
saleswoman.
You cradle my hand with thin, soy fingers, barely curled, faintly thrusting.
You slide a pen from your glossy bun. “Let me know what you’re looking for.” You say. “I’ll be your
saleswoman.”
You lead me through the store on stilettos, on fibrous calves that writhe, clench with every step.
Your body says you’re a different kind of
saleswoman.
You make as much effort to defy as you do to flaunt, but with your shoulders pulled back,
you coax me to forget that you are only my
saleswoman.
You don’t know it yet, but I’m sold.

Estate Auction (revised)

They arrive early - farmers and
families with kids in bare feet - to graze
rows of boxes before bidding starts.
Dad twirls his mustache on the porch
gnaws a tooth pick
eyes the auctioneer testing the
microphone.
"They can have it all." he says
with a heavy hand on my back.

We watch him sell grandma's church clothes
to a woman no one knows. His tongue flutters
through consonants like a frayed tarp
on a passing semi.
"Dish and cup set! Good condition!"
numbered cards flash high through autumn air
tethered by stained farmer fingers.

"Clock, still runs! Starting bids at 20 dollars!"
Highest bidder.
All to the highest bidder.
Yup! and Yup! and Yup! and Yup!
until all is sold
and the strangers disperse
as though from Babylon,
carrying pieces of a century,
of a family, leaving only
the plump,black ants
circling unblossomed peonies,
and lilac petals
falling into unkempt grass.

shoes too small

where weathered
hide of cows gone by
and pocked, shredded rubber
part ways, there is a
slightest foreshadowing of
what is to come.
the strategic, determined
wriggle through stubborn
thread is subtle,
yet to think I never knew!
suddenly the fleshy
protrusion squeezes
forth, humbly posting atop
an unpolished hill top.

NO MORE!

The GOP is finally dead.
Let’s lift our hands in praise
and set our minds on future times
filled with better days.

They tried to tear this country down
with God and fear and war,
but on this day we make a stand
and boldly say “NO MORE!”

“No More!” to secret agencies
infringing on our rights.
“No More!” to Texas oil men
picking global fights.

“No More!” to aristocracy
dining off our dime.
“No More!” to intel cover-ups
and blatant Wall Street crime.

“No More!” to bible politics
and Evangelic rule.
“No More!” No Child Left Behind
and underfunded schools.

So stand with us and say “No More!”
to Bush and all the rest,
and let’s lead Lady Liberty
to the bright and shining left.

Victory

twenty minutes
to write a poem.
to find myself
and scribble it
on paper
i search
prod
dig
endure
all in vain
the needle ticks
each second a sliver of
failure
ripening into that
which is my defeat.
i win.

Lord Knows How She Loves That Bushy Mustache and Tequilla Breath On a Sweaty, Tijuana night.

the rhinestones
and sequins make him childish,
vulnerable in a dispensing way.
She watches him tap his foot
on the dirt floor as he jams
the strings of his guitar,
fingers groping, stroking
perfectly as an aside.

She insists their eyes met
during the second song-
corazon, corazon, corazon,
to the same three chords,
always the same three chords.
So she stays,exposing
her legs in a less
than subtle way, while
blowing cigarette smoke
into the rattling ceiling fan,
drinking cheap beer,
waiting for him to
finish.

Shitty morning

An old lady is trudging through the mud with
rubber boots and floppy breasts slapping,
flapping, under a wet, wool coat.
It's raining and I want a fucking cup
of coffee and sure as hell don't want
to talk to her.

She's humming - something jovial - and
it pisses me off even more that someone
could humm when they're covered in sludge.
Naive, I guess, but I'm still pissed.

Her coat buttons are huge, like a
stoplight down her potbelly. I pretend not
to see her and look to the road, hoping
she'll walk by and leave me alone because
all I want is a fucking cup of coffee.

Her boots slide in the grass behind me
and every step is soggy suction. She
stops walking but not humming. I grit
my teeth. I don't know the song.

The rain gets fat and loud and I
wonder what the hell she's doing
back there. I don't turn around, in
case there's still a chance of not
talking to her. She taps my arm.

Your book bag is unzipped.
she says, pointing with a drippy finger.
Your books are all wet.
And with that she starts humming again
and turns away in the rain.

in a military town

It's not a walk,
but a stiff,
meaty shuffle,
back and forth,
across the road,
from bar to mall,
from mall to bar,
tattoo parlors and
barber shops.
All I can do is watch
the shaved heads bounce
up and down
behind more shaved heads
in hopes that one of them
will step in my gum.

SPAM haikus 3

Thank you, servicemen,
for giving me the freedom
to eat SPAM all day.

If SPAM grew on trees,
I would change my profession
to an orchardist.

When I eat some SPAM,
I'm overwhelmed with pleasure,
but not the sex kind.

Try the SPAM diet.
You may, or may not lose weight,
but hey, guilt free SPAM!

I looked out the window
at the pouring rain.
"Boy it's raining cats and dogs out there."
I said.
Then I realized that
it wasn't really raining
cats and dogs,
it was just water,
and I felt really guilty
for lying.

SPAM haikus 2

I found a genie
and wished for a can of SPAM.
I don't regret it.

Sometimes, late at night
I wake up in a cold sweat
reaching for your SPAM.