See ya.


poem about a bus stopSheltered somewhat from the city's mumbling and the hot, stagnant, diesel-perfumed air Under pink-painted steel slits, which from the right angle cast shadows like a knife Had cut open sunbeams and laid them out like deli meat, I give a dollar twenty-five To a man who smells like an ashtray and grins with half a mouth and asks me for fare, Not caring whether he boards or buys whiskey with it. I only have attention to spare For the slanted jazz rhythms singing on shuffle next to my ears, and knowing I'll drive Away later rather than sooner in a purple, green, and white toaster on wheels, and arrive Atpoem about a bus stop


The AntipoetIThe Antipoet
A cigarette burns idly on the pavement; ash eats its way toward the filter like cancer. He looks down at it, knowing he is the only living soul to understand the bittersweet irony consuming itself on the cold pavement. With a well placed step he snuffs the cherry to put the dying emotion out of its misery and out of his mind, and he keeps walking.
He spends his time living in predetermined adventures; previews, title menus, select a scene, sit down and tune out. He wonders if the controller in his hands, the ergonomically correct hunk of plastic with multi colored knobs buttons and pads could possibl
--
...but is it art?
Just stopping to say Hello!
--
I can change your view on shit, just click me.
--
Moderation in all things,
including moderation.
--
Ignorance is death. I prefer to live.
--
...but is it art?
--
I write all sorts of stuff. Seriously.
[link]
Imagine how good I'll be once I grow out of this rebellion phase and learn to appreciate the proper scope of things, hm?
--
...but is it art?
--
I write all sorts of stuff. Seriously.
[link]
Previous Page12345Next Page