362

There was a man who many years before had barred the doors and slumped among the corpses and broken things wailing, "Pity me! Pity me!"

361

Burning shameful memories one by one in this tiny winter fire, huddled, trying to get warm, and cleaning out the closet.

360

The holidays are all around, but nothing's in my heart.

359

There was a goth girl on skates who wouldn't hold onto her hate: She'd note the abuse and new purple bruise, and slam the bitch in the gate!

358

The world is calling, "See me! See!" A siren song? Or the voices of angels?

357

Listen to this quiet; breath its loving sounds. Sit there saying nothing, and feel its love surround.

356

"Romulan warbirds! Fly! against / You – Me - Gravity. / Their hovered Darkness / cuts – Infinity?" – James Tiberius Dickinson

355

We just tell little lies – red, white, and blue lies. It's better you don't know. You're happier this way. Trust us. Enjoy your freedom.

354

The party's over, the fun has stopped, and obligations throb. Yet vomitous relief, I know too well, is impossible.

353

For sale: ribbed condoms, never used.

352

No caffeine, no .... What was I saying?

351

I sink like a rock in pudding, slowly fade into this sweet vat of sleep.

350

Our menu includes "carpe diem," which is English for gripe of the day.

349

Eventually – turbid waters still, ruddy mud settles, and all is clear and quiet again.

348

Icy Christmas day: The solitary cowboy, shivers, drinks bitter coffee and remembrances beside the campfire, sucks both down to dregs.

347

Crispy fries shoved into eyes are hard to take, worse than snakes, unless they're softened, slathered, soggified like rum-soaked cake.

346

Freedom's just another word for ... VACATION! Bring on the fruity drinks!

345

Wind in the trees and songs of coyotes accompany the scribbling pen and toes digging into dry sand.

344

By new mansions in the mossy oaks, ancient gators wait in murky ponds below the searching cormorants.

343

Lost love: a lotus blossom, set loose upon the stream, slowly floats away to join the evening stars.

342

Each day I scratched her name in sand, grating those familiar ridges new. But today! I nothing wrote – soft breezes blew them all away.

341

A poem a day keeps the analyst away. Or gives him a publishable paper.