misterpoop

I havent been home in three and a half months. Im broke. I arrived in Boston two weeks ago with 37 cents to my name. I dont have Novembers rent and I dont have the money for a bus ticket home. Im depressed. I was accosted by someone better than me. he said: Your mission was a failure, Your life style is too extreme, Im your new commander, you are now my prisoner... and we returned. Or at least I did. Relatively unchanged. This begs the question: What the fuck am I looking for? The high point of my travels were in Portland, Oregon where I turned up just as lonely as when i left. I found three poems that I wrote there. Portland poems. Think Ill move there. Marry a tree trunk and take up knitting. Victor thinks my poems are self indulgent. He doesnt like them. I think he thinks this of me too. Even the roaches look down upon me. I guess Im just not a nice person. Or maybe Im just a bad poet. Maybe Im both. Id call for help, but I lost my cell phone and 37 cents just isnt enough. On top of that Im afraid no one would answer.

TOO MUCH OLYMPIA BEER AND THE CUTE GIRL


What now that youve turned your brain
once again into mash
with toxins. Are you done
again with it
done with the wrecking ball
head aches, no more once more
upon the bottle?
Over heard conversations
that drift into the mash
about photos of a boyfriend
of boys who are desired by girls
cuter and illusive to you than you
can you?
cant remember this
but the box
My heart is in a card board box
four inches by four inches by four inches.
a plain box. plain dull brown
with no ribbon
and the rain has taken me home
down through the soil
and into Portland cafes
to mull and root
if not rot.


ONE NIGHT STAND.

Not going to do it
as usual, you said
little moans
and dehydration had
its way.

No use in figuring
un stitched our night
and I stitched you for
the good and plenty juice

It would have been nicer
had you arrived
but you were ten years behind
and me?
Half way to an old man

grabbing a glass of water
with my shirt on backwards
at four thirty in the morning

A strange woman
spied on me
before I returned to the coldness
of your tent.

And all night long
I imaged that she was famous.
A famous actress
couched in a Youth Hostel
for who else would be up
at that hour
but some jet-set star
and a bed head bum
his dick still dripping
looking for more








LEAVING


My last day arrives with rain
like all last days
and all last night too
like youve never seen
lonesome.

Each drop of rain holds a wish
a molecule of hope

little pops of sadness
that wash your thoughts

a cool mineral forgiveness
smelling of Arborvitae
and transitory ache.

A plate on the window sill
with crumbs.