amerika Ăźber a l l e s my friend Bob Flanagan wrote a novel called Maggot about the horrors of Parris Island where they turn Marine recruits into killing machines
hearing the stories on the news of what American soldiers do to Iraqi civilians i'd say mission accomplished but the business of the American people is war without war we'd be just another peaceful country
wasting away the summer afternoons drinking beer and smoking pot in the glorious setting sun. ~
196
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a miserable profession i'm the poet who moved back in with his parents after getting fired from his last job i'm the 6-foot-1 poet who's fat and has diabetes i'm the would-be pseudo-poet who's giving it a try i'm the poet who sits on the patio summer nights listening to the crickets and staring up at the stars i'm the poet who doesn't have health insurance i'm the poet who downloads girls-with-dildos movies on my computer i'm the poet who listens to X i'm the poet rotting in a small town in Ohio i'm the poet who writes poetry to kill time while i'm dying.
ROSS VASSILEV
cataracts the eyes are going and my toes are turning brown the mind went a long time ago. nothing much here as the sweat rolls down my back and the sun crashes in through the curtains. poverty ransacks Eastern Europe and there’s nothing I can do. life wasting away like a weed rotting in the sun. I’m less than a fly on the wall my Red flags turning to dust.