out there

out there- i hear a lot of scraps and babble

what shoes are you wearing?

sketchers, uggs or or fuck me heels?

the food cart across the street

sells sausages of ground up

antelope and pheasant

and you can follow them

to any corner on twitter

and a claque old white men

who've sworn off sex

claim that every wriggling tadpole

in their wad is a person,

a gift from god that we dare not deny

do i need to set myself on fire in the street?

and post it up on youtube?

my facebook status is static

which won't cause banks to panic

they've got their levi-clad

hairdo man to worry about

and the brains of babies

are splattered on the walls

in the suburbs of damascus

and the baseball season is

right around the corner

where's the rain?

i haven't stood before a waterfall in years

and i think it's time.

i need the spray and oxygen

and the moon just hangs there

above the city and the jungle

and the forty thousand pairs

of nike shoes still slowly swirl

in the great pacific gyre.

should i be going barefoot

stop eating fish and cookies?

when they put me in the ground

or spread my ashes in the wind

you can say-

it took a lot of fish and cookies

to carry that guy through the years

and all that's left of him

are a few words and pictures

maybe i should write down some recipes,

so someday someone could pull out a

dog-eared batter-speckled index card

and decide to make a batch

of raisin oatmeal cookies