wow. 22 zeros and counting. asses. everytime i read this i want to buy you a drink. i'm from the east too, you know. just not that far east. and your heart has already been broken, right?

lo and behold, yet again, by confessing children, but the same time not really confessing you achieve the unachievable. 24 tens, from a place where apparently the confessional works by not actually working. hooray. i'm impressed.

much better. not quite rainbird, but a powerful sprinkler none the less. i guess what i'm asking is, can i smell your finger? you know your having a superb orgasm when you piss like a cat marking its territory..

add to this and HAI-KU it.

do you know rebecca?

secondly,the biggest confessional of all time...here i'm leaving this fruit cake for the holidays at your altar..it's my aunts recipe.one dash miles bettween us, a sprinkle of endless sea..steeped in the sun for a week with a pinch of photograph in wallet. vuala 'disinfranchised confessional poetry that's not confessional but still true with just a tinge of metaphorical middle america dustings <the babbit special> enjoy children it goes with coffee and scones along with carolers and snow drifts.t

is it...could it be?...no it couldn't!, but yes..once again 'not confessionally confessional poetry', by none other than..? you got it mr. poetry. not just any normal poem boys and girls but a riveting american staple that you to can purchase at wallmart in the form of a taxidermied mallard with a brass enscribed plaque. thanks uncle charlie! i'll put it right next to the rocket i built last week...say,,will you fire her off with my at the play ground this afternoon uncle charlie..that'd be swell.l

round and round, where we stop nobody knows.oh yeah... at a brief confessional, but look again is it really? yes. but notice how well it's blended into the magic plum sauce.o

whassamatter? someone tell you to lick your own bunghole and adhere yourself to the vertical stabilizer of the next shuttle mission?

a plethora of information that equals what i already know to be a three hour tour.r

And will UPS deliver these things?

Cut the confessional wanderings and the telling-to-much antics and focus solely on some on the better images of this poem and you may have something in the end. But I know, I know, this is really high art and I should just go fuck myself because when we are all long dead they will be studying this in schools going "why didn't anybody understand that this man was ahead of his time. The Jimi Hendrix of poetry."

I did not miss reading your shit.

i'll put your opinion right next to my guitar pick collection. To be lost in the dulling colors and teeth marks. here let me help you out, i'll give myself a zero and take your critic to my eyebrows like a straight-razor cuz that's how fucking much i care about what you think mr. poetry.

That's very depressing. I don't think I was ever that depressed at that age! No wait, I was worse! ARGH!

and as such giveth you fodder to muncheth on.

Can someone help me, I think that I'm lost here, lost in a place called America... I am crying now because of your poem and Mr. Foster's poem and talking with Andrea last night about her dead dad, and Joey asking me questions about how exactly did his father's head get bashed in, and how did it look and an articleIi just read about the decay of my homeland and everythings so overwhelming. Joey put on his band uniform last-night for a final fitting and he looked so dear with his little bowtie and cumberbund. He'll be 12 tomorrow and still doesn't understand what a frightening, pain-filled world this is. It's layers deep. I will cry for a few more minutes and then i must pluck up the courage to trudge ahead for your boy, for my boy, for me. I love your poem. The soft sweet part of you.

first off, it's too ummm confessional.

Oh my god. This is beautiful. A work of heartbreaking, staggering genius.

fair enough. would you like me to call you a cab, sirrah? it's the least i can do.