A young man named Jack
oh how he liked to...

I am the spinning,
she is the spun...

Another time I write a poem
Creating words for language arts...

My mother has beaten me in weight,
this nasty thing that has become a game...

I am walking to New York,
When, suddenly...

I know that I wrote like that once
All the same cliches...

Its the rush and release
With cold acts of desperation...

Some people write their poetry
with quite astounding mediocrity...

You are,
in the rain...

Early one morning, I
Found myself staring at a woman...

I am watching you
on my miniture tele...

With smoky eyes I give my plea
I did these things involuntarily...