A weird sock can get away with
Describing themselves as a lost step in life

a dirty sock can be a dad poem

dad poem rests on a rock next to an anchor

dad poem thinks garter snake cut by lawnmower

dad poem lights a cigarette

we are in the mood for barbeque tonight

Yesterday's massive sell-off claimed the lives of 80 blue whales.

Friday's heat wave melted the jacket of an elderly man.

The decline in the employment rate last month resulted in more syphilis in Chelsea.

The declining spider population along the Sunken Cave trail caused a spur in social interaction
among the gypsy moth population.

whatevs. please move. please take me home.

grandfather clock has to be
cranked every week.

what's the rule that poetry has to come from my life?

i need to use your cigarette lighter to burn my dirty socks.

matthew rohrer goes skiing and he wears a one-piece suit and a yellow stripe goes across the chest and a bright orange stripe goes across the chest and the suit is blue overall.

feeling slightly less severely-depressed
feel like depressed is the new crack
feel like depressed doesn't help depressed
feel like guy looked lion head
feel like guy with mirror cried when i cried
feel like sometimes late at night i cry on trains and don't care
feel like small patch of grass shrinking

you were really good. i liked all of you.
people were coming to church.
people began escaping from buses into church.
it began to snow, a commercial came on, and i liked you.
you were really good. i held you like a bear in your bed.

the hemlock path level reminds me of my childhood.
a radio keeps saying things downstairs.
one time i stopped to feel myself dying
and turned into a jetski.
then i was afraid of jetskies
because i became a 'wild' lake.

i approach things and think about them.
then i do things to them.
then i'm tired, it gets dark; and then i go away.

ann beattie eats an apple.
she puts a spoonful of almond butter in her mouth.
she chases the almond butter with lemon snapple.

i'm awake, i do laundry, and
the stupid yellow thing comes up.

okay, this poem is not about a relationship.
i have a journal filled with faded words in pencil.

i'm in a box.
my brain releases something into my flesh.
a dog comb floats.

i think my art is bad. i write a poem with the word teacup in it. i thought teacup was a good word.

my cheek just shrunk a little. i'm very depressed. i almost had crippling depression today. i thought crippling depression was funny when i thought about it as two words connected. i'm really sad, but i want to be different so i can make you happy or excited, less bored, more. . . just better or something. i feel stupid i tried to write a poem with teacup in it. i feel stupid for everything i ever did. i just want to see you and feel better.

obama talks in the background. i slump in the chair. i am slumped in the chair. i failed at everything. failing is good. i feel smarter when i fail because i have to justify my failing to myself inorder to keep living. i tilt my head and think 'something else now'. my head rolls backwards not a little. i think it rolled inside my head. it did a backwards summersault.

yesterday i watched a man cross the street and felt really good about everything. yesterday i felt good all day about everything. now i feel bad. i think i know why i feel bad. maybe it's the wrong reason. should i be concentrating something else than what i'm concentrating on? i have to stop writing. someone is putting bags in the garbage pales. the applause for obama sounds low, like they are booing beneath the congress.

are you watching/listening to obama? i want to hold you, please.