My mental span’s variety spans wider than the types o’ trees,

so now that I’m too naturally coked-out to read

the ventures o’ a recovering alcoholic in book clubs,

I’ll bug you, insipid Muse,

whatever vapid, abstract meaningless you’re meant to represent.

Sorry.

That’s bitter graphite.

Should store that deep in the kegs.—

No! You should let it free, expressively!—

No! Don’t be so bleak!

Just pretend it’s not there—

No! You must be honest with yourself.

See, these are all tricky philosophies.

That’s what make them so wise.

Would the alphabet be so sexy if A always meant A,

& not 5, as in Brain Games’s “CodeBreaker” puzzle?

It’s time you stopped making ‘scuses.

Gotta get out in the game,

get a new frame,

taste the frost on the flakes,

stop sweeping with a broken rake,

put your feet in the freezing lake,

taste the rainbow in the rain,

I secretly hold Hitler’s brain,

get mo’ buck for your bang,

get insane in the membrane,

do as the good books say,

I’m on a plain with cocaine,

toss the sugar & keep the cane,

we have nothing to lose but our chains,

put ice in your veins,

don’t play the blame game,

get through the red tape,

have you seen my husky, Blaine?,

put your fists on the crane,

get in the quick lane,

eat your carrots before your steak,

don’t delay,

don’t stay,

shake & bake,

easy as cake,

less than Jake,

ache,

snake,

ape,

shlpape,

don’t you feel the tightening hold on your heart like a wrench squeezing all o’ the tears from you with constantly building misery till your nerves want to cry out & the fear finally devours you as if you were nothing but a puny, worthless, splotched, & mushy grape?

I do, too.

I do, too.

Don’t touch me there.

That’s my private place:

only I get to touch me there.

No one else can.