Not Doing This for Free Anymore

As if I had the power of a union

I’m realizing that pushing my poetry out for free

Is a sin and a crime against myself

My worth

I and my poetry are worth more than that

Your eyes

Might find my work

Somewhere behind a paywall


After I’m done writing it

After I figure out the cover art

When it’s on Amazon

Or in an indie shop

I’m not doing this for free anymore

You sluts

Recognize true art

And you secretly salivate at it

That it’s free

Oh the best things are free you say


Artists need money just like you sluts

So pay up

Fuckers sluts

Pay up

You’re all

So stupid

You have lost

Your Nature

You cannot see

Into the


Like I

Who am

At one




You don’t





You hurt me?

Why do you hurt me?

Why aren’t you in prison yet?

You narcissistic sadists







Why aren’t you




I wrote some bomb-ass poems today

But I’m also a bit drunkish

So like buy my book when the second or third one comes out

Not the second one, that’s shit (and not out yet)

Buy the third one

I don’t know what it’s called yet

But it’ll come out after the second one

The first one isn’t advertised well but it’s pretty trill


You say on the news on TV that drones were looking for terrorists in Iraq

Like they are the bad guy and just kill them

Like they are not human

And like you have never had a boisterous or “problem” child in your life

Like you don’t know what it means to care for someone who would rather you off dead

You, this, are a leader, and I can not respect you for that

Thoughts of disquietude and self-doubt adorn the halls where I walk on past the pillars strong and my meal for the breaking of the fast and the morn o’ double in the interior excellence past…

Wondering why they submitted to remorse. Wondering why.

They did that.

Please, ever, to know, that you were, here, in this way, sinning so righteously with the fervor of fire in your fist, forsaken lady, seems knowledgeable now, but did we ever know back then…

I submit myself as a specimen for the xperimenters. Come find me.

The world is too big. Empty. They get lost in the vacuum. No one is found. I rest alone.

Least of all are any experiments run.

How to terminate the time. How prematurely do I bask. Stupid fool, me.

Fool me.

Why not.


Lesson being:

You can’t catch a fish if you’re drowning.

I submit myself humbly as your savant-sadist, to know pain and communicate it with you surreptitiously. I submit that we shall be interlocuters–no I don’t actually know what that word means–but that with diligent recourse–or that one–I shall be might! And righteous! And do pardon the potty break…

Beyond recompense, to forget saying you remembered meant so little to me, that at the time you were weeping on the kitchen floor, a wreck of bones with a knife and a candle. And in my memory imprinted in my dreams you did not get up for aeons, and I looked down on you. I looked down on you.

How to memorize the planet so that I might may go home. I could not decide, forgive me.

Remorse without recourse is a crime, of course. And yet, so little prosecution does find itself executed under the rule of law. How tragic, our social circumstances. How tragic, that he started it all in a garage.

They play plethora row-wary stymied misdemeanors and all such but no other one will know it but they. This is all learnable, is it not. It’s all classic, post-modern, indeed, it draws on multiple disciplines. But how do you know where I’m hiding? Ring the bell when the meal is over.

I’m hunting winter. Winter’s rife blankets and reflective coats over my surface. I will melt you, you better come down, boy. There’s a sluice–nope–in the breakenstance. It is overall, there, in my high place, without you. You had better come down, boy, the cups are full and need a drinkin’ with apple sauce and brandy high. Things fall, some whether or not you ask them to. This time I won’t, because I can’t see.

Roll on by…

I feel you white rabbit chain apocalypse meandering slowman showman never wins to the go-man. Never wandering wondering who is it why did I say that when does it end.

No one will tell you. No one will tell you when it ends.

That you determine for yourself (is undetermined (in this case)) I give up I don’t want to do too much I love you, you know.

Very much.

But beyond that we must function, to stay occupied.

I met a fellow once who did nothing and was happy.

I don’t know.

If we told more stories like these, whether they were true or not, maybe we wouldn’t be so pressured into finding work and making money.

But you like paying the rent just like I do.

And I’m going to finance some real estate.

There’s nothing real about it. And it’s not really anyone’s estate.

It’s a “mis no mer” lolololol fuck up the ass is that to do with my life?

So it goes. You relate but ah, as it comes, so sayeth the wizard to blow out the candles with window flame is in excess.

Then we vault. And it ends.

So there. Is your happy conclusion. Jarring. Pickled.

Disparate of my way is yours and we see this happening so often that no one speaks up.

It’s hard to say why.

I won’t.

Go there.


And hemlock.


And hemlock.


Stay warm,