June 25, 2008  :: 0 comments

I am psycho.
I am a gangster.
I am a playboy
like President Clinton.

I speak German.
I speak Chinese.
I am a Catholic-Jew.
I was born in a stable.

I’m from Bethlehem.
I’m from East Berlin.
I came from Cuba
on a motor boat.

I was arrested.
I am homeless.
I am a rich man
from Beverly Hills.

I need my slippers.
I need my clothes.
I want to walk naked
and barefoot on fire.

I am a refugee.
I am a citizen.
I am the President
of the United States.


June 25, 2008  :: 0 comments

He sniffs his own feces and urine.
He claims it gets him higher
than crack, speed, or PCP.
He concocts this malodorous drug
in the restroom inside a cup
half-full of rubbing alcohol.

I thought he was strange when he said he
was hooked on instant coffee
with sugar and cream packets.
But hearing about human waste used
as a means to get high is
something I had not heard before.

It was reported there have been more
than one explosion as
the drug splatters in his room.
His roommates come out gagging for air.
The Group Homes have crossed him off
of their placement lists forever.

The doctors give him other drugs which
he is convinced is poison.
He would rather drink urine.
He would rather sniff his own waste to
self-medicate, to get high from
the most malodorous drug.


June 25, 2008  :: 0 comments

I’m really worried
about my hair.
It won’t grow.

I can’t get a job
because of my
hair, you know.

I’m really upset
today. I don’t
know why I’m

here. I don’t want to
answer any
of your dumb

questions because I
don’t have mental
problems. I

have a feeling in
the back of my
teeth. I need

a dentist. I don’t
need a shrink. My
plan is to

live with my boyfriend
in Bel Air. We
were going

to get married. But
my hair caught fire.
How will I

make friends now? I’m not
whatever the
shrink tagged me.


June 25, 2008  :: 0 comments

Who set the sun off in the distance?
Who painted it red orange?

Whose brush splashed the rivers green?
The fish silver? The skies dark?
Who placed the songbird on the bent branch
and filled it with sound?

Some mad artist?
Some genuine genius?


June 25, 2008  :: 0 comments

That small waist
turned heads in the tavern.
Glasses were
emptied as eyes followed
the small waist.

Is she a prostitute asked a woman?
Why don’t you ask her, said the
man she was with?
The woman gave the man she was
with an icy stare.

The small waist
walked out of the tavern.
A blue-eyed,
mascara stained prostitute
livened things up for a moment.


June 25, 2008  :: 0 comments

When I asked the depressed
lady why she wanted to die,
“to get to Heaven,” she said.

If I were to go back to my
Catholic school days, “I would
tell her, “You go to hell if you
kill yourself.” But I don’t.

The depressed lady not only
wanted to die, but she wanted
to speed up the process by
overdosing on her pills or
cutting her wrists with a blade.

I asked the depressed lady
if she read or if she had hobbies
to make her feel better, she
said, “Yes. But I lost interest.”

I was way over my head here.
I could not make the depressed
lady smile or feel good about
the future. I wondered if that was
even part of the job.