There’s nothing that makes me crazy
like your writing.
I find myself wanting to be near you,
I find myself wanting to be walking
next to you.
I even find myself wanting to know
more about people living next to you.
How about people leaving close to me?
I don’t care about any of them.
They’ve called the police on me after
I’d slapped one of them loud the other
evening when I thought no witness saw
when in my self indulgent state
I thought I was Lord Almightly and that
nothing on this earth could ever stop me
from being who I’m
who I’ve always been;
a violent person with a scar,
a set of big rabbit teeth of which when
my purse allows,
I’d like to have them fixed.
And don’t you ever forget that every woman
who leaves me is called a tramp not because
she is but, because I’m so scared of the world
that I find it hard to cope with being by myself.
I had to burn a woman’s house to make my feelings
known almost a decade ago because I didn’t want
her seeing other men.
My friends call me an arsonist but I don’t care
because I, like them, we’ll surely burn in hell like
the devil and his satanists.
Do I hear any of you devils say amen?
Well, sure, amen.