dan's poem

nature's opera raged
against rhonda's
angry, asshole ways

but there
despite lacking titles
of
prime minister,
president,
or just asshole,
daniel's pink boxers
stood.

unfazed by dilemmas at hand
beer cans collected from the
fridged, ice cube emulating pool
in hand
mother fucking weed
burning
in hand
carrots being munched
passing
hand in hand
"that's what she said"

boxers don't make the man,
but pink boxers man,
are you fucking serious?

WaLLS

I draw on my walls
painting the unthinkable
confusing M.C. Escher himself.

Green and brown
are my colors of choice;
I like nature settings,
so I leave blanks for snow
and noise.

BUT THEN I HUCK A RED CAN OF PAINT AT THE WALL

Next thing I know
I'm sitting in a bathroom stall
wondering
whether
Betty really is a good fuck.
Her number is there,
I trust the writer to be trust worthy
because I trust he didn't pee on the seat.
I trust that when I flush
my shit doesn't just land in the street...
I sometimes stare at my feet
as I walk on my walls
leaving muddy tracks
from when I wandered through a rainy forest scene
like the seattle music scene
of Mushroom aided Alice type dreams.

I once fell asleep at my friends band practice.
I had been playing the roll of:
"Manic Insomiac"
and crashed.
In my dream
I was screaming
as I shot holes
into bleeding walls
just to view the inner structure...
the inner structure...
the inner structure of dreams,
the foundation of spark,
the flint for the heart.

I draw on my walls
with food color infused butane,
but am only now
beginning to realize
that I cannot
run
from my ashes.