Gravity

This is an all poem.  This is an every poem.
This is your neighbor's sister's boyfriend's cousin poem.
This is a starfish crunching under your foot poem.
This is a hot poem, a snot poem, a toenail fungus rot poem.
This is a gimme what you got poem.
This poem is wearing Bill Knott's underwear.
This is a tree falling on a bear shitting in the woods poem.
This is a spit in your eye, tie you up, and hang you out to dry poem.
This poem is digging your grave.
You'd open your fly for this poem.  This is a trillion dollar deficit poem.
This poem is hungry. 
This poem wishes you were an Oscar Mayer wiener.
This poem has determined you are ineligible for parole.
This is a go ahead and scream 'til you're blue in the face poem. 
This poem can't hear you. 
This poem is a wolf at the door.
This poem is cracked in three places, and it wants your guns.
This poem is a Tuskegee experiment. 
This poem is your Home, Sweet Home,  your Kit Kat, your black hole.
This a fill-in-the-blank poem.
This poem has a designated free speech zone, but it's closed for repairs.
This poem is a flame-shooting dragon wearing a crown of seven charred elves. 
This is your O holy knight poem.
This poem killed Jesus.
This poem has scheduled you for a routine mammogram.
Stop resisting!  This poem is gargling napalm.
This poem is red, white, and blue and smoking in the boys room.
God bless America.  This poem is your mama.

Confessional

Here lies the disconnect.
Does looking have a price?

There's nothing inside
this confessional.

Habits persist, deep and wide.
We talk about ends,
preoccupied in routine,
clutching our family jewels.

There is no sobbing.
That time has passed.

Locked up, barren
in dead nostalgia,
surrounded by old graves,
what survives is familiar:

something dirty,
misplaced, inappropriate,
a stubborn dream,
a gift stillborn.

There is no new history,
no new trail to follow
forty days, forty nights,
forty years in the desert
where memories lie.

One bumps into me:
What do you need?

I waste a lot of time.