A poem about manifestation.

i am pandering to the points that i want
on the eve of Jupiter entering Venus and whatnot
and comparing it to what i really need,

as i loiter in my Mazda where you can usually find me
doing one of the following
rhymed list of things:

being alone,
playing Klondike on my phone;

listening to a CD on my SUV’s player
from my stack of self-burned music CDs,
all of which i’ve heard before;

and wet-lipping a big ol’ blunt just for me.
i know you’re all joking about my masturbating in the back seat.

maybe now that i’ve brought it up.


i don’t really know anything.
i blow the smoke out and i ponder my fatty
while i cough uncontrollably like i’m acting on TV:
telegraphing it for everyone in the audience to see
that it is, in fact, ground marijuana leaf.
if you priced this thing out it would be a killing,
but i don’t have the start-up to buy a booty-babe
to do all that tedious rolling.

i forgot where i was going


so i drift for a moment,
and in that space, she wanders through
in a special guest cameo i can’t mentally defer.


i know that i shouldn’t be driving

but my Saturday is also New PlayStation Deal Day –
as nutritional as breakfast cereal
and modestly-priced as Extra Foods –
and i wasn’t paying interest on my credit card
for a bill that, with tax, costs only two-oh-seven

so now i’m in the parking lot of the Seven-Eleven
with my twenty-five-dollar cardboard voucher
filling up to the tip of my breast pocket,
and the rain clouds from my last week of work
have parted
as a plane flies against a wild blue heaven
and you’d think i’d be running home


and so

because it is calm

i think about her again,
and the clouds loop back like a Terry Fox race.
i guess they were blowing back this way eventually,

anyway.