The older the house

The better, but

A newer car is best.

My opinions

Never matter, so

I’ll get more off my chest.

Hotter over colder

But sleeping with a fan

Helps me rest

I like all types of coffee

Although it’s Dunkin’

If I’m pressed

Dandelions are not weeds

They’re the yard

Getting dressed

And I’d rather wear

A whole coat instead

Of a puffy vest

Socks over slippers

Though never under blankets

My feet feel stressed

Empty playgrounds are sad

But a school closed for summer

Is super blessed

This is addicting

I won’t pretend but

This is the last one left to profess

I’d rather play checkers

Than a single game

Of chess

Okay so, i'm not allowed to hold my sisters baby anymore because the first time i held him i dropped him. As soon as it happened my sister went into hysterics, crying and accusing me of dropping him on purpose. She called the police on me and it turned into this huge thing.Of course i denied doing it on purpose because it was an honest accident but my point is, who brings a baby to the grand canyon?

I'm just kidding my sister doesn't have and children, well not anymore...

Hope you enjoyed the joke it is not mine and i can't find who the joke belongs to so if you know drop a name please.

I have this cup.

It is my favourite cup.

It is shaped like a pineapple

And I think this is very fun

A tropical cup to get me through the winter months

Today I dropped it, as i often do (not on purpose) and the plastic green leaves popped right off.

Leaving me without a drink,

A bald pineapple,

And still three more months of winter

I cherish and keep rushing thoughts as if they were diaries.

Like I am trying to live my whole life by tomorrow,

hoping for a lifetime of love to fall through my tainted hands.

I want to know what normal feels like

because everyone tells me its great.

To know what a million dollars feels like

because its a manner of speech and momma always told me

to have good manners.

And to be honest.

But my normal is budgeting tattoos and poetry books into my monthly wages.

Along with cannabis, kind words, and duct tape because I know

those are the only things that keep love alive.

Yes, I will be old and covered in ink with holes in my ears and face,

and the only arthritic bone in my body will be my middle finger

because its nice enough to say,

“hey, I love you but you need to grow up.”

I first saw God that night I squeezed the moon like a lime,

but I was ten years early and too poor to buy tequila.

So we put sugar on the rims of mountain dew margaritas

because even now salt doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.

I saw Him again that one northern Ohio winter

that was almost cold enough for me to quit smoking.

Harboring hate like the Titanic and ramming it into

my iceburg heart.

He said to me, “hey, I love you but you need to grow up.”

Then he lit a hurricane.

The rain couldn’t stop me from stealing sidewalk chalk.

I loved the blue powder it left,

like dehydrated raindrops.

I precipitated hopscotch squares too long to travel

and promised at the end that I would find Jesus.

Those long drives home to my clumsy pup and humble saint mother

taught me that there are things worth fighting for.

And things to fight,

like those chalk tears,

creating endless streams of sanctity.

I do this for her

because even when I shout “fuck” in front of church crowds,

she knows I speak with the blunt conviction of love.

And even after discovering the dead bodies of

adolescent rebellion in my room,

she loves this fuck-up.

So thanks for the manners because it drives girls crazy.

And thanks for the truth because it makes my words worth something.

Every time I find a chapbook

In a used bookstore

I get a burning desire to

Rescue it.

They are always laden with

The memories and the dreams of

Ink pen warriors.

Someone out in the world

Bold enough to share their most

Intimate secrets with

Complete strangers.

The Underdogs.

I imagine a wordsmith

Losing sleep over the perfect

Placement of syllables.

I wonder how many hands

Have passed the little Chaps around

Like fifty page harlots.

The bookstore looks more like

A brothel, going under since the

Industrial Revolution.

You can almost see the

Steam billowing from the pages.

And you can sense the desperate

Author trying to eat poetry.

I wonder how Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Felt in 1958, selling his book for one dollar.

As if his words weren’t worth more.

I want to liberate the Russian literature

From the oppressive binds of the

Fifty-cent shelf.

To give back to those from whom

My fathers took so much.

I owe it to them,

The poor little Chaps.

Sent off to die in the

Scholastic Army.