Poem

The best words occur between twelve o'clock and two.

So, this is my
bathroom floor confessional--
my mem-war of a
starving artiste
bloated by the fruits
of idio-angelic praise.

I prefer the term "revolutionary"
to "hypocrite," please.

Haikus are written in five-seven-five
Don't you dare try to tell me
otherwise: I'll beat you with my Gideon bible
and shout obscure passages to reinforce
the bible's identity--
from Ecclesiastes, or, uh, Plato.

Hey, why are sex and death
so intrinsically linked?
Because they both provide a climax. (Au revoir, mon amour,
let us have a cigarette.)

I would like to be completely honest with you
in saying that I really, really
really wanted to write you something celestial.
but I could not think of anything
except for global warming. (You're like a slant rhyme.
you work so nicely in theory,
but you end up so flawed.)


I'm so sorry.
I'm American, I have to be.

Get this:
I can tell you the origins
of the word "cynic"
the first cynics
the best Greek inventions.

I can recite for you "The Raven"
start to finish, if you'd like,
but I cannot tell you
what the fuck
I'm doing.

It's two now.
Thank-you. Good night.