Here, There, and Everywhere...

There was a blank man

With an empty line for his signature

Right across his forehead,

So they wrote across his forehead,

Any names they wanted,

Ass, or Crass, and Trash, or anything they so desired.

He was a nice man,

When he was present,

But as he was never present,

He was the ass of crass disposable trash,

And they were not wrong.

 

Do not allow these words to confuse you,

But do not be alarmed that they aren't for you,

You want to be the center of this universe,

But you are hardly the center of your living room,

And so they usher us quietly to our seats,

While the actors go through their beats,

And this show is full of far to many dramatic pauses.

Don't worry he is still there,

The man who has begun again,

He's smiling through painfully gritted teeth,

And Jesus will not save him,

Because Jesus does not know him,

But he does know his best friend, who goes by the name of Jim.

 

Jim is a man of simple taste,

He cares not for the cares and worries of his neighbor,

But he will feign it if it grants him audience

With a bodacious beauty beheld behind bold bottled eyes,

Drunk disorderly and dissolute he does dote darkly on devout Christians,

But not the real reveled revelers but the more radically ridiculous richoets,

Who bounce beautiful and bombard beasts with bridged bullets,

They skip over text because they do not know its meaning,

But Jim doesn't care,

He only has to pretend he does.

 

And so the story will go on,

And so the reader will be confused,

For no one told me that anything had to get through,

That thick, and wonderfully horrible skull of yours.

 

To the subject at hand,

To this blanketed man,

I do say that he is sad,

But how could I know what he had,

For breakfast this morning.

 

It's true that he knows,

And its true that he goes,

Beyond the gates,

On important dates,

But not through a wonderland,

For there are real tasks at hand,

And though he prays,

He can go without for days,

For he is not a religious man,

But back to the task at hand.

 

Yes, the tattered soul of a writer here,

Born forth from grief and misery,

But not so much the worse for wear,

He still has happiness hidden up his ass,

And he wears it much more proudly,

If indeed he is put to task,

He'll speak far to loudly,

Hear him now:

 

Destiny

Discerns a,

Dark and,

Dingy story,

Derived from,

Darker days yet still,

Doom permeates these words, and

Devils sneak in,

Devouring the

Dreamer if the dreamer,

Does choose to acknowledge,

Dastardy circumstance that,

Damns his soul,

Day after,

Day and night after,

Drousy night.

 

Every man,

Except those who sleep,

Especially those who dream,

Expect an

Ellipsis here,

 

But,

I will withhold it.