When I dusted off the counter today
I found something that was lost before

Jesus was there by the sink,
sitting down right next to the toaster
he looked at me and asked for a coaster
he and the cherubs were drinking diet soda,
and watching the ants eat my sugar

I asked him three questions
and hear what they are
why are you sitting by the toaster?
why in the hell would you want my coaster?
and
didn't I ask you to leave last summer?

Jesus said he wanted to live in my heart
first the counter
then my heart
what's next Jehova, my first born child?

yes actually he said, before he snorted and growled
I really do want your first born child
would you like a brochure for heaven?
its pretty wild there, and the bread's all unleavened

No thanks
No thanks

Poetry grows as a function of pain.
Organized anguishes conquer your brain,
And drown your joy in a river of doubt,
With a poetic structure you must write about.
Brilliance is a burden so rare,
You can not ignore it, so it, you must bear.
The sorrow is swelling, not baggage, but freight,
It demands that it, you articulate.
Agony restless, it calls to the pen;
The cyclone in your mind is starting to spin.
You will not sleep; no, you’re not allowed.
You’re a slave to the page til it’s all written down.
Your hands may tremble, your brain may burn,
But you will not rest until the last word.
Insanity replaces your sense of time.
Seconds and minutes dissolve into rhyme.
One o'clock, two o'clock, five o'clock, eight,
It has grown quite early--or is it quite late?
The night is long gone, but there’s no time to mourn:
As the sun starts to rise, a young poem is born.
The inspiration is gone, and leaves in its wake,
The pain that it somehow has still failed to take,
And still even worse, a hollow chasm,
Where the inspiration and pain had just been.
You lament for lost sleep as you stumble around.
Your pulse in your ears is a deafening sound--
Like thunder that fills you enough that you pour,
Like drugs that aren't enough anymore.
The pain has subsided, but you’re well aware
That though it’s appeased, it is always still there.
Now, it lies dormant, in a slumber apart,
A luxury you forfeited for art.
Inspiration lurks, ever waiting to strike.
It exclusively chooses a time you don’t like.
Try as you might, you are bound to the pen,
And after each respite, it comes back again.

My middle-aged boss Ted was a wise fool,
He got married to an original
copy of his first wife Jane,
He was a selfish lover,
She trusted him and always looked thoroughly unhappy,
They had a loveless relationship
Pamela,her twin had stolen her husband from her,
It was an open secret he and Pamela had been lovers for a long time.
She found no better revenge than to give him to her,
They had an amicable divorce.
There was deafening silence when he came to the office with Pamela,
She was painfully beautiful,and hell's Angel,
She was like the man she had married
We were used to his typically weird behaviours,
But,good grief! This was worst,
It was crash landing.
Both were terribly pleased with themselves.
We had no choice but,to congratulate  them,
It was an era of free love.
Before the marital bliss was over
she took over the reins of the office,
She started with veiled comments how we worked,
Then came veiled threats,
Next she lectured us on business ethics.
The pretty ugly lady had lost her head,
Ted,the big baby was forced to do nothing but watch,
There was a minor crises in the office,
The staff alone together resigned.
A small miracle happened,
Ted lost his cool temper,
He wanted his imperfect perfect wife out of the office.
He realised that their similarities were different,
You have to really know someone to understand they were strangers,
The evil genius had transferred his business and house in her name,
He was speechless.
A story told in silence,
For him it was the coldest day on a summer's day,
A common raven sits on his own faeces.

Genius is forged by passion
It is this which never dies:
Transcendental elation.

So long as one creation
is moved to dance mesmerized,
genius is forged by passion.

Though stone hearts lack expression,
postmoderns aching to try
transcendental elation

Keeping "plebes" from their "mansions."
Speak this opaque truth as lies:
Genius is forged by passion.

The hive mind *******,
at shared expense they deny
transcendental elation.

Our yearning adoration
causes heaven's voice to cry,
Genius is forged by passion!
Transcendental elation.

confessional poets,           borrowing
from the  Catholic  sacrament
of confession, unburden  themselves
of their most twisted,
  hidden          desires;
Beat poets grab  their
      words          wherever
they find themselves,                       thus      
informed          &          realizing that all                      words
are *******; everyone is lying;  
mankind's most brilliant
geniuses     are idiots;
Mozart, Michelangelo, Da Vinci,
                        Enstein,
Dylan & Zuckerberg;
Jesus Christ; not one
          of them knew enough to    
come in out of the                 rain;

Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
I love being cliche,
and being lazy too.