Car Crash

Blinded by the light,
Heading towards the darkness of Walmart
The dune buggy was critcally wounded.
It might not recover.

As it was hit
As I was hit
I thought only
How all this was a minor inconvineince.
I cared little for the car,
Or the money I was losing.

I cared about making it
To Texas on Thursday
It was only after I got
Back into the insanity
Of out of the moment
That i started caring about
The inane reality.

My car sustained more damage
Then that of the other driver.
But even when our cars were towed
The wreckage still remained
In the moment and adraline.
A reflection of global car-wreck

One in the anus

One, in the anus
And two, in the front
When I smell my fingers.
It smells like your cunt
I guess you really must
Wash your ass well
Because that's not
The part of you that smells

Fatgirl-Havanaville ( For Joe)

Everyday girls for every day people.
He just wants someone that will mean the world.
Who will treat himself and his freinds as an equal.
But make him a sandwich when he gets home. 

And he's telling me,
Its not hard to see
The fat girls are
The only ones who will care.

Unquestionably,
He has a glint in his eye.
As he drunkenly takes his hand,
Through what left of his hair

There is just more to them.
It more fun to screw them
There more to hold on to
And you're in for a ride.

Going down to Fatgirl-Havanaville
And all he wants is more junk in the trunk
Some people say, there a petite girl, to blame.
But Joe really knows, fat girls know how to funk.

She has a big ass there
And he likes the pot belly.
And when you fuck her
It should be to tap.

The sound that you should hear
Is if you take you hand.
And smack steadily
Into you belly fat.

And so as he is bragging, to silence my nagging
He tells me of all his loves in the world.
But all of the girl who, he could grab onto
There has never been better then one with some folds.

 Going down to Fatgirl-Havanaville
And all he wants is more junk in the trunk
Some people say, there a petite girl, to blame.
But Joe really knows, fat girls know how to funk.

So it like a bisuit
A sort of limp triscut
There are more crevases
To put butter in.

It like a big fish
That you catch
With a small rod
It just a matter, of reeling it in.

They are less demanding
They hold higher standings
And it takes him,
Much less time to cum.

They dont have to me models
Not even role-models
He just wants them to
Roll over his heart
 
Going down to Fatgirl-Havanaville
And all he wants is more junk in the trunk
Some people say, there a petite girl, to blame.
But Joe really knows, fat girls know how to funk.

Yes, on the way to Fatgirl-Havanaville
Jiggling around while perfectly still. 
More cushion for the pushi.
Leads to more boats in the sea.

He is an explorer
A protagnist horror
And all that he ever
Wanted to see

Was nature at its finest
God at his divinest
And a nice fat girl
Waiting for he.

 Going down to Fatgirl-Havanaville
And all he wants is more junk in the trunk
Some people say, there a petite girl, to blame.
But Joe really knows, fat girls know how to funk.

To Emmy Em

I am like a moth, to the flame of dat ass.
And as I watch you, shake it fast.
I feel like, some sort of industrious animal.
A sort of non-barbaric cannibal.

Your the first girl I felt this about, under the context
But I feel like maybe, there is some sort of pretext,
A prologue- connection and opening act
That maybe requires a sequel.

I look at you as an equal.
And not only in that I don't find you work demeaning.
But that, as you work it...
you input a meaning, into every moment.


So I guess, because I am superstitious
And easily quenched by my doubts
I felt suspicious
About...approaching you on a face to face basis. 


And telling you
That I think you are amazing.
And that though, in your dance...you put on a mask, 
I think I've obtained enough facts


To be interested in finding more about you..
Over dinner. 
Now I hope, that you thus don't think me a sinner.
Or think that my feelings are thinner..then truth


I have no expectations
or wants or demands,except that I hope,
That the context, under which we shook hands,
Doesn't impact my chance

I wont feel deserted
I am not perverted
And if you say no
All the bridges, will stand...still unbroken.


And you can rest assured,
I don't just think of you, as a token.
I just want a moment of you, in my time
To grease up the grind, of my day to day life.

And I hope that this does not cause you strife
But even  though my request is full of meaning
If you say no, it wont be demeaning.
I wont feel stifled

So I guess this poem is just a chance trifle
But its the only way I could get up my courage to act.
Otherwise your in my mind like a tact,
On a tact-board, but without a note.

So humbly, I will... await your answer.
I see in you more, then an exotic dancer..
I know a cafe, where you can drink coffee like wine
And all that I want, is to show you a good time.

Women of the streets ( AKA RUSSIAN DISCO)

Are you a women of the streets?
Standing where the light post and darkness meets
Performing wonderful feats
I swear to God, I love dark meat.
But I have never been with a
black girl before.

Regardless I don't think you're a whore.
I just keep coming back for more
Even though I've never had a slice
in all my life
I want the whole pie.

On Broad and Ontario
Your hair, you really let it go
but still your body is petite.
And your a women of the streets
Standing where law and justice meets
Just being fine
While you smell of pine.
I think I want dark meats.
i sometimes wonder if tastes
any different.

Once you go black. you can go back.
but seeing as you are on crack
I might never see you again
And all we, both want is a friend


A prostitute 
is destitute
a massage parlor 
is to far
but while I am here in my car
I wish that I could stop
and discuss philosophy with you. 


you are a women of the streets
And though I really crave dark meats.
I think I will just by some ham.
Becasue you love is just a sham

Goggle Bikini

There are some ideas
That fly in my head
When I cant fall asleep,
And am lying in bed.

Like a goggle bikini
Complete with a strap,
Its see-through, yet classy
Sure to attract a nice chap.

And as for the bottom
A snorkeling mask
It makes scuba-diving
A much less stressful task.

Complete as a set
I would sell it online,
And charge, you the low price
of $19.99

Tarot 2

He is her opposite,
They are familiar, though they never met. 
Intrinsically tied to the plainer fields of existence.
He like her, does not acknowledge, that beyond the empirical.

The Emperor, the fourth kind.
He like her, is innocent.
It is not his corruption, which counterbalances
Her purity, it is where he channels his purity.

He does not seek to hurt,
But he asserts himself constantly.
Where she is the medic, he is the warrior.
He hunts, and plays army games with his cousins.

He would never hurt a living soul.
But he has always appeared, as the wizard to me.
Fireballs, seem to be at his will at all times
And though they only appear as ghosts,...

These phantasms, in another life, seem realistic.
He craves women, and uses art to get them.
Anouther similarity he has with her;
But while her canvas and inspiration is outside...

His canvas is his body, and he is an ever-working sculptor.
He plays video games, to win.
He has no qualms about wasting his life in front of
A computer monitor, or playing paintball.

He is Qualm-less, no conflict touches him.
And while he is not the apex predator,
He is most certainly the Emperor.
The masculine, only giving,

He has no concerns, for the outside world
Or what he should receive from it.
Thus he becomes the manifestation of all that is man.
For a man is that, who is not trifled by trifles.

As for the fifth, it is attributed to three.
The Hierophant, representing red
Fitting, since two of the three are Communists.
The three, were once involved in a lovers triangle.

There names all begin with the 13th letter.
They all teach on the 13th floor, of a twelve story building.
Three academics, knowledge without a missive
Into which to apply it.

The one is a funny little pollack
Who always preachs communism,
Less for reason of virtue,
And more for pent up envy for the rich.

A professor earning less, then a garbage man
He is always bitter, making weird faces,
And odd gestures with his hands
Squinting, while he compliments you.

He laughs manically, cackling.
Saying, even though he finds your ideas foolish,
"This man has things to say"
He dates an underclassman

He acts uncouth, gets drunk
Plays fantasy football against his family
He buys overpriced pork fat.
His date often appears bored, slowly realizing it just a title.

He is a good man though, and he appreciates
Humor in the way that it is given
He stands before his suudents like a madman.
A rabbi, he manically bobs while teaching,

Hoping it will reach one of his students
But they do not understand his obsession with history.
This leaves him deserted, and thus chronicles
His life as an empty comrade, the Academic martyr.

The second of the three, is older.
She veins from emotions, because they scare her
She is an immigrant in many regards,
She lived the life he wishes he had.

A converter from a Sputnik, to an Apollo
She worshiped Moses,
And now she seeks to uncover Jesus
And so her academic pursuits, are self motivated. 

She is a Bodhisattva, hoping to attain
Enlightenment, in the enlightenment of others.
She speaks more truthfully, and thinks deeper
But like her comrade, she is tied up.

She makes a mean cup of tea.
And lives truthfully, her words are always kind.
She lives a few floors above him and teaches
A few floors below.

The third, worships Anubis and works at Path-mark
He has totally given up on the innerworkings of acadamia,
But he has put in too much time, and is otherwise now useless.
He is always brushing up on his Latin.

Like the others in many ways,
His failed connection is that he never tried.
He has become nihilistic and skeptical
A weary warrior, who preaches magic,

He has no wonder left for it.
He seems to derive little pleasure.
Time is the worse of all the thieves.
A fallen tree, without the leaves.  

They are three aspects of a life
I left behind in college.
And like the 13th letter
They seem intrinsically unlucky

Teachers, they mirror
The corruption of the world
And like a gun with a cap on it.
They blow their potential inward.

Sarcastically the sixth, sits siliently.
The Lovers, and oh how many he has had.
He is most normal of my friends.
His power lies is his ability to fuse.

He seems bitter, for all the connections
He has made, has given him plenty to loose.
He is skeptical, and while he tries
For a vicarious empathy, he grows shallow.

He plays guitar, and rolls his eyes.
Forever in contact with the things
Which he, like love, has united to himself;
He has little but disdain for them.

He sees the good and bad in everything;
But grudgingly usually only expresses pessimism.
He is smart enough to be a man of faith
But his faith has failed him before, so he worships science.

Dark and light unite within him.
His compliments are backhanded
They burn with corrosion. He is charmingly funny
In this regard, a  passive aggressive incarnate.  

He mirrors his surroundings,
And partakes in all the human rituals
Of a world, whose culture he pities.
He is worried about the enviroment.

He believes in little steps, but fails
To see the forest from the trees sometimes.
He is the Lovers, in love with a dismissivness
That only he posses. He is the white and black.

But in the end, it men like him
That hopelessly unite
The Dawn and Twilight
The Day and Night.