Poem: Toilet Time

Sitting on the Toilet;
hope I do not boil It.
I know that was a bad Rhyme,
all I could think of at the time.
Toilet time is almost over,
then it's fields of grass and clover.
I don't often write like this,
though I must admit;
it helps me piss.

Story: The Finger

Yesterday I was feeling lower than low. Homeless, penniless, stinking, sticky, alone, with a sharp pain in my stomach from hunger. Walking down a street where an endless stream of cars drove towards me and away. I felt the unholy weight of my uselessness on this planet. Like a ghost, nothing I did really mattered to anyone. I was powerless and impotant as the endless river of cars full of real people passed me by. People who did matter. People who had power to change things and make a difference in this world. Oh, how I hated and envied them. Was there really nothing I could do? Nothing at all that would matter to these people? If I killed myself they wouldn't even notice. My writings are read primarily by my mother, to use as fodder for insulting me and torturing me. What could I possibly do that would make the slightest shred of difference to these people, while at the same time expressing my deepest feelings about my situation and their society?

Without really thinking about it I raised my hand toward the on-coming cars and extended my middle finger towards them. The cars were passing quickly, but the response was immediate: Eyes widened in surprise, children pointing with laughter, looks of confusion, looks of anger. With this one simple gesture I had made a connection with the Others, I had communicated my feelings, and i had made a difference, however small, in their lives.

A small drop of warmth filled me. Almost like joy. Raising my finger higher and prouder I walked leasurly toward the beach. I must have flipped off a thousand people yesterday. And it felt great!

Later on I started singing repititions of the word "Fuck," in Operatic form, as loud as possible - much to the consternation of the tourists nearby. Looks of confusion and illness; clearly this did not have the same effect as The Finger, nor the same cathartic warmth for me.

A gesture is simple and fun and can't really be misunderstood, while a man screaming "fuck" is just sad.

Long live The Middle Finger! When the world's giving it to you, give it right back! You'll thank me for it.

Poem: Pee

I really need to pee
but that guy is watching me
and why isn't the pee coming out
and oh god I'm just standing at the urinal
holding myself.
Someone's going to think that I'm playing with myself,
god I need to pee so bad,
why isn't it coming?
That guys staring at me
how can I pee while he's staring?
He's enjoying looking at me holding myself,
oh god I just want to pee
why wont it come out
oh wait, oh please
here it comes
oh please,
no! Don't stop,
it stopped,
oh, here it comes again,
oh please,
oh god
oh
yeeessssssssssssssssss.