Called in to Work

  I smell freedom, what would I,

  Even do with it, smoke more,

  Drink more, I'd be dirtier,

  But you know what,

  As I began to write this poem,

  My dad called me,

  So maybe I'm wrong,

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Maybe, its just a season,

  Of mistakes, maybe,

  It’s a migration,

  Of people, it’s the harvest,

  We're just preparing,

  For the winter,

  I just hope, I'll be able,

  To see some boobies.

  Martial Arts

  And the groundhog saw his own shadow, he immediately exited, he said I'm not a poet, try, being nice, it still, writes itself, forever dreaming, being himself, advantage,

  I'm still not, an architect,

  I still, don’t want to, explore, the rules,

  Why, we’re built this way,

  Are you a mountain,

  Open hand.

  Windowsill

  Does the dream begin, what’s active, in the air,

  Architecture, some sort of,

  Joke, I love you, babe, is magic,

  Still in the air, a fishnet, stocks, and fantasy, whatever man, are you,

  A mountain fist, a baby,

  A little, selfish, a hold up,

  I'm coming, an artist,

  A joke, a soft pillow.