Packing 13 pounds of lbs.
The rubber chicken pecks the order.
Buddha sits off to the side.
Open the box,
Set free the spiders.
42 non-matching socks,
Crappy love poems,
Slipping out of binders.
Candles,
Cash,
Most of it's trash,
Even the head of Oscar.
Still less then anyone I know,
But all I have,
They would throw.
Six different bedrooms,
This year alone.
I'm looking for a stable 7th,
And to 'lesson' my load.
No wonder I'm crazed,
Treading water with junk.
I give besos to the Paraguayan Chicken God.
Bags in Tejas, and some cd's with Todd.
Has all that 'wandering Taoist'
&nbturned into walking muck?
How many un-read books,
Three boxes at Tiny and Shell's.
How many call me a "shmuck"?
How can a 'loaner' love living with?
I play with government wanking with the Williams's.*
Maybe I'll write a play with all these half-used notebooks.
A play staring me, but write it to have a happy ending.
Shoe boxes filled to novelty.
The Salvation Army loves to hate me.
I buy their's and drop mine in the night.
I bug solicitors and give burglars fright.
My dream is nothing more
then walking on tapioca pudding.
No more 'should he',
or 'shouldn't he'.
Maybe I'm suppose to lick
the mixing beater blades with me feet.
What is the cost of catastrophe?
The nickels are rolling.
I'd like to meet a 110 year old gay Indian.
Gas perfumed Nomad living in Highways median.
Does lurking behind my smile
an epitaph that reads "He Had Stuff"?
More pathetic than a baby gato
in a garbage bag thrown in the rough.
I shake my head.
Even within my junk,
I relish like a hot dog!
Our computers buy memory.
I drag sympathy.
Imagine your best friend
saying "I've invented a world with out you".
Haha!
The gimme is got and tied in a knot.
So what is my gain,
in the boxes I fond a shirt that's blue.
Do you drop at a depot?
It all seems like an inside joke.
I guess I'll do what I do.
And find those that retain,
Or shy from my glue.
�2003 Daniel J Harris