I'll move, run, really
In the woods
can't see it above ground
hunch over it and keep warm
heat up stones on that fire
And bury them too and sleep on that spot
And eat what I can find
Certain leaves
Nobody'll find me
You can make coffee with dandelions
Eat cat tails (the plant, silly)
Make flour with acorns
I just need money for tooth paste
My only civilized thing
Steal it. Shh.
Yup. Return address on
Mail from me will be
Return to sender - - ‘X' marks the spot
Of the habitual offender
Maybe even another country
And communicate by drawin' pictures
Desperately runnin' ‘round with
A scribble of a crumb cake
With a tomb stone scribbled
next to it - - intended to say :
"If I don't get a crumb cake
I'll die."
Draw myself with a shovel
or a bus pan in hand :
"I need work."


Jingle bells. Jingle bells.
I'm hand-cuffed to a chair.
Sometimes I think that the best I could do in life,
my highest goal,
would be to keep myself out of a cage.


"One funny thing about the funeral was . . ."
Anyone who starts a sentence with those words
is damn fucked-up.
It don't matter what follows.
"Here come the seagulls," the bum said
as he stood at the edge of his newly deposited
puddle of puke.
An hour before, he drank three bottles of cheapo wine and ate
a couple of hundred pages out of a dictionary.
The pages were there in his puddle of puke, saturated, and then
his gastric juices started breaking down the paper with the words,
disintegrating some of the definitions and syllables and letters
of some of the words, transforming the language.
He pissed on the pages to counteract their disintegration
He kept those pages in his pocket, with those changed words.
He started using those new words.
This strange, patchy language caught on with the bums on the street -
That's where everything starts.
A new language was born that day.