Friday, September 21, 2001

After long pause, the poet floats to the top of a drunken stupor,
(napkins were not numbered)

Napkin: Crash

Dear Friday, September something in 2001.  Hmm, after a 10 buck tip for a 3 toothed smile I get ignored - love when that happens.

Napkin: The freedom of being "Bad",

"Ready to go" she says = Probably those words ignite her car's ignition. She leaves, never the lack of surprises. Her leaving means she dies from ever again site. She, it turns out, Left my 'Years' from the time of safety and bliss this man calls high school until this man learned that "bliss" is a construction that some parents build for children and some children learn that the bliss only continues upon self-invented construction techniques.  I love all you people that will never read these words of bullshit. (Sober note: It is so comforting to not worry about ignorantly falling into cliché. I can write without the writer's paranoia of being "small minded" in the eyes of those that always seem to understand more that us, because I stamp these poems with the distinct label of Bad - A no loose proposition)

Garbage

Wow, many, many moons,
Many beers
many lonely trees,
since I last wrote upon the once very familiar bar napkin.

I'M BACK.

Napkin:

the key

one great Citizen watch this fellow bar friend wears. If you have the right watch evidently, no matter how drunk, one always knows where they are, what time it is - what day what hour

How can one feel so much light while so dark outside - the U.S. "outside." Today is all outside and not free, accept family, free from everything that is. My bunker is constructed from thin bar napkins. What does that say of my bunker or my safety

glances, from ladies and dances with long Islands made how only Arizona can make them. Arizona makes them and in form "they" make me. 
Wasted
with lust, and love, and comfort and fear and on Arizona.