so if this

is the last poem

ever written

know that,

know I don’t love you

because I’ve left

this empire

of ink & sweat

on these pages

for someone else

to read between

the lines:

I don’t love you

and I never will

and I won’t

because the poems

give me less trouble

than you did,

so don’t think

so don’t believe

so don’t

and take this empire of ink

and decide for yourself

because I never could.

this curse

on anyone

because a poet

never stops thinking

about the next

to greatest

poem

he or she

can free from

their subconscious

because it gets

harder

as every single day

passes,

and it gets harder

to keep loving

these words

while living

your life

full of obstacles,

but to free

yourself

from the shackles

of

corporate doom,

one must

unlock the part

of your soul

where secrets hide,

foraging into the forest

for those

special berries

keeping you alive

for another

word,

for another

line

and for another day

fending off

the

madness

trying to

bring us

all down.

where I went to

read some poems

at an over-priced

coffeeshop,

Douglas Street, Victoria,

and I stumbled

on every word

while the people stared,

but I blame it all

on the girl

who got me stoned

half an hour earlier

because it was one of

those times

I wanted back,

since it seems

someone was taping

the event

for a show

on University radio,

and out of the five poems

I had picked out,

I could barely

get through one

without laughing or

making it look like

I had mental issues,

so I cut it short

to a well deserved

smattered applause

and swore sobriety

at poetry readings

with distinguished authors

taping my voice

for radio.

so I’m in

the doctor’s office,

sitting on a

brown chair

staring at the

linoleum,

and I shouldn’t have

but I brought along

Bukowski

to pass the time

but it just

makes the time go by

slower

and while

Henry talks about

some woman

calling him

a son of a bitch

so-and-so

the fear of this day

creeps up

faster & faster

among the reddish-beige

tiles, so Charles,

I should of

brought Jack

because I’m depressed

enough

as it is,

you son of a bitch

so-and-so.

I got a pack of cigarettes

dying in my ashtray;

a filthy habit,

just like love

and all my heroes

have split

from the cosmos

in poetic deviation,

only remembered

in corporate bookstore madness

over-priced words & thoughts

too much to charge

for the soul of man.

greek goddess

back in her day,

but now

everything seems lost

and with her withered face

it’s hard

to imagine

this once beautiful woman

had any type

of sexual prowess,

but it must be

the eyes

so tired of

holding up

bags of discontent,

yet whenever I see her

we smoke cigarettes

and laugh

but it’s never the same

because before,

I used to think

if I ever

saw her out

having a drink,

I’d walk right up

to that forty-nine year old beast

and with the

confidence of a matador

unfurl my cape

of seduction

if only for a poem

in the morning.

or think I choose

my battles wisely,

but I must confess

to being

the lone gunman

perchered atop your mind,

replacing bullets with poems

bleeding people dry,

so tell me

which television camera

I should point my pen at

to incite a riot

within the system,

because my words

wound souls,

literary erections

just

hang

there

and the wine bottles

clank

and the sun burns

bones

dropping these bombs

in the hopes that

society destroys itself

one denial at a time.

I blame it on the madness.

Jessica, Sarah & Crystal,

I blame it on the madness.

Carrie, Louise & Stephanie,

I blame it on the madness.

Lori, Heather & Pam,

I blame it on the madness.

Christine, Amber & Dawn,

I blame it on the madness.

Wendy, Michelle & Jamie,

I blame it on the madness,

and that’s my excuse.