Your pride
comes from
your nationalism,
your patriotism,
rage and dissatisfaction.
You pass each moment
stewing, colluding
with each new oppressor  
in the name of solidarity

Spewing slogans and
other simple statements
oaths and weak ideas
you build a fascist nation
and wonder how you ever got here.

It's fun
To fail
At most everything

It's fun
To be a financial failure

Fun to fail
At making friends

Dull and miserable
Sitting under a tree

No one cares
And no one
Notices me

I say hello
To the world
And let things be

I'm going to do
What I want to do

I can be very selfish

There comes a time
When you are
Supposed to

"Choose a career"

I never saw the point

I do what
Makes me happy

I suppose some people
I know

Will grow
To dislike me
In time

That's okay

I'm just doing
As I please

Time here
Time there

Bank account
Almost zero

But I
Do not care

This poem is for
Every lonely guy
Who works out
Who is kind and caring

And who is ignored
By women

Who interacts
With beautiful
Married women

Who sees women
With boyfriends

And who
Does not
Have a female friend

And who dreams
Of the soft touch
And warm *******
Of a woman

Leave me out in the dark
I'm not your playground of destruction
that you run to during your recess.

chiseling the grass,
sharp as sickles.
thrashing your leather whip
on the dusty ground
with an unerasable frown.

Strangling it around
the rusty bridles
of my broken swingset,
ripping it out from root down
at the twitch of your wrist.
Straddling my worn out see-saw
imbalanced by the wreckage of time
prance around until it
shatters into a million steel slivers,
While your hair brushes the clouds
while you have the first taste of rain
and feel the chill of snowflakes against your skin.

But this playground,
this zealous monument,
was built for
a higher purpose.
It's a place where
streams overflow,
wildflowers grow,
solace to the fireflies afterglow
& poetry readings during
seasons of snow.

If it does not stand for it's purpose,
my trembling hands will flick
a matchstick on the the wick of the trial
to arsonate it's submissiveness
and eat it's dispossessed soul.
It's flames will touch the
cradle of the crescent moon.
And from the ashes

I will rise,
*the Undying Light,
the Untouchable Night.

I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a
train and that they never were recovered.
I can't match the agony of this
but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem
upon this computer
and through my lack of diligence and
practice
and by playing around with commands
on the menu
I somehow managed to erase the poem
forever.
believe me, such a thing is difficult to do
even for a novice
but I somehow managed to do
it.

now I don't think this 3-pager was immor-
tal
but there were some crazy wild lines,
now gone forever.
it bothers more than a touch, it's some-
thing like knocking over a good bottle of
wine.

and writing about it hardly makes a good
poem.
still, I thought somehow you'd like to
know?

if not, at least you've read this far
and there could be better work
down the line.

let's hope so, for your sake
and
mine.