King of Bad Poems

The market was out of beer I now see why Roses make us nice and happy

These flowers are all blooming in loves great great year At least my wife isn't Slappy

A purple nip rests on my brow as angels Sleep in central park

Scotland pub A Fellow Leapt into my heart

Decadent chocolate drizzled with fantastic overalls

are like summers waning moon....

daffodils are Sweetly playing

in this poem I am saying

press my face into Apple cider because lovers are one eternal spider

with legs thin and crisply taught poking at this Gentle thought

in a cooking Pot all clear of any spots but yellow polka-dots

an army cot.

Shakespear dust

This is for all those who keep the lights off when they get dressed in the morning.

It’s for the hawk nosed readers. The daydream conceivers. The date keepers. The bleeding man in the gutter after a midnight for the girl fight. For the awakened dreamers and the dreamless sleepers. The man who has everything and still wonders what it feels like to be happy. And for the lumber toothed speaker.

This is for those with a numbness and those who are kidding themselves. For these long years. For the 25 year old in a comic book store. For the gritty and the pristine. And for all of everyone everywhere human and space dog alike. Shake the dust. Take every photo God has taken of your life and send them, in a garbage truck directly into the Sun. Burn out the bad. Take all the moments in your time, easy or hard, soft or sad, and strangle them to death. Dig all your cares and other peopling and for this moment think of your life, your self, as you. You are who you are. You're cool who you're cool. So wipe off that bloody nose. Take out that muddy dog. Shake out your dusty eye sockets. You are finally alive.