Guns That Shoot Knives

Guns That Shoot Knives

Did he have a gun, that shoots knives?
His eyes, were guns that shoot knives.
Did any girls show up,
who have eyes,
that are guns that shoot knives?
One.
But, her eyes
are like guns that shoot lnives
made out of wet bread.
Did you get shot,
with wet bread?
I don't know.
I wasn't that hungry

A Bike's A Bike In Summer

	it rhymes, so it must be poetry.
	Dearest M. You ask of winter mornings, here, and I don't know what to say. Arent' mornings in the winter, everywhere, the same damn shade of grey? It rains on things it shouldn't. I break things with my words. The coffee's never strong enough. The frost has killed the birds. You ask of winter mornings, here, and I would have to say, It's afternoons in summer, here, that make curses go away. A bike's a bike, in summer. A song's a song, and lazy. The kitchen isn't filled with smoke. There are less people to be crazy. I'll get through winter mornings, here, and then through summer, too. I'll get through all the seasons, M., though, how, I've not a clue. Love, M.

Alas, The Madonna Does Not Function

You un~leashed the dogs of Hell, on me.

I know these dogs.
They have been housed, there, in the same exact kennel,
the same exact, bloody, rusty cages, behind mannequins,
and sale banners.
It's the same exact street, in the same old neighborhood,
and, the same old grey man,
with his tightly corseted secrets, his strange,
round spectacles, and pony tail,
who sweeps the curling leaves and dead things,
from around his little world.
The Prince of Darkness owned the same animals,
many years ago.

In the end, they ate him.
Devoured him, tearing limb from limb,
peeling all his meat away, leaving it,
for me to find.
We sat, you and I,
and, I told you this.

When, I was prepared to tell you
that I could no longer be beside you.
Not because the beasts had gotten loose,
but, because,
I needed to know that you would keep me safe,
from them.
I needed to know that I wouldn't be taken by surprise,
by these same wretched, brutal, curs, again.

Don't think that because you don't feed them,
they won't come panting back.
They have had the taste of blood,
and, they will try to get beneath your skin.

You asked,
what can I do, except to say that I am sorry?

Shoot the dogs.
They're sick, and, they won't stop.
They want the rubber ball to stay inside their mouth,
not for fetching.
They like it as a gag.
But it keeps you quiet, not them.
It makes it you, that keeps on running.
And, they will call you, at their whim.
I don't think you heard me,
when I asked...
one thing.
Shoot the dogs.

Better Ask For Bushmills

Better ask for Bushmill's or What if my name were Margret Mary
Date Created 10/25/2007 21:27:00

So, I asked Larry,
"If it turns out that I am ever dyin' faster than the rest of us, would you spot me a whiskey?"
"Yeah. Larry said.
I asked, then, "Will you cry while I drink it... for the Irish?"
"Yeah," Larry said, "As long as you're Catholic."
Funny thing is...
You're already dying faster than the rest of us...
If you're Catholic...
It just seems slower.
I love Larry

The Wilco Letter

So, Boys, Almost one year ago, this month. I spent my fourth of July on a little canoe in the middle of that lake, with a crazy fireworks competition going on, with Scott and Ryan. And about fifty old crazy drunk men.. on the shores, Firing off cannons of destruction, freedom, and flame. I went by plane, and not by ambulance, as was planned. I spent the night before in that rickety old place, they call, "Congress",To escape the planned coldness of an educated man. To escape his return of rejection. I met the writer of haikus, which was planned. I tripped on roller skates, as was planned. I fit, which was a complete surprise. I wore an old slip. I had one of "my headaches".  Of which I am so embarrassed. I loved a man.  Which was un~planned. As murderously ugly as things turn out in this world, Like fans who sneak on you without bouncers... I wouldn't trade my last July. My Independance Day. In escaping Tucson's heat, I also escaped it's coldness. My love to the girl, Cake.

you will die by my hand or this is a really fly band what?

He had a stripper for a girlfriend.
He had what she thought to be an online affair.
In her anger and wish for retribution, 
she turned him in for growing a warehouse full of pot.
Or, perhaps, just disappeared the day the cops found out.
He saw her in a club one night,
and said these words to her.
"You will die by my hand."
Her new boyfriend tried to box him.
She got confused when she told the police that he had said,
"This hand will kill you."
Which made her seem silly.
When he went in front of the judge,
He said the club was loud, 
and that he had said,
"This is a really fly band."
That doesn't rhyme with
or sound anything like  
"This hand will kill you."
The judge dismissed the case. 
He loved to tell new girls this story.
Which made him seem silly.
Or worse.

Student of the death of the Rooster 

She waited one hundred and thirty days, 
hoping for the dead.
She sat quietly, and moved nothing but her eyes.
And when they came collecting money from the dead,
She paid them with her own.
The energy of life is more powerful than greed, she said.
And when they came collecting the paintings of the dead,
She dispersed them among his loved and lovers.
Knowing that friendship is more powerful 
than "cultured" people led.
And when they came collecting the writings of the dead,
She burned them all, 
Protecting his insanities 
from the curious and the wicked.
Then they came collecting the belongings of the dead.
This is when she opened wide the door.
"The living will need the things that the dead do not," 
she said.

She buried, small, a box, hidden in the yard.
Rings and mummied kittens were the treasures that she hid.
And when her heart grew weary, 
too heavy to work, anymore,
She went inside her house, 
and then she shaved her head.
Silence was her companion, then, 
her servant, and her bed.
You say that she is a graceless warrior.
You say that you would learn her.
You always keep your promises...
This is what you said.
But the master doesn't always choose the student.
She has chosen you instead.
You dared her for birds on wings of bleu, 
and hearts afire, red.
She is learning, now, her master.
As she learns herself.
You step this way, she counters that.
She has begun to learn your blocks.
You are the book of mysteries 
that needs be learned and read.
You caught her by surprise, just once.
It will not happen again.
Why would she give up on the living?
She waited one hundred and thirty days, hoping for the dead.