Art-i-Fact

As I walk on stage the crowd chater dies I step towards the mic To late to turn back now All eyes are on me as the butterflies ascend Ive been preparing for this for weeks But now Ive got nothing to say Its ok, Ill get through this, just remember the rules Rule #1: apeal to your audience Say something about a stolen presidency or haliburton Yeah the liberal college crowd will love that Rule #2: Use meter beat and rhyme scheme To make your poetic dream gleam like its been wiped with Mr. Clean This assures screams from the congregation Rule #3: Use VOICE INFLECTION And tonal variation To highlight the important lines And keep the

House lights go down But no one cares They're only here for happy hour beer In the crowd selective hearing disreguads talent Litsening, waiting, for the new comers to mess up Its bound to happen Cause they cant handle hecklers, or moms in the front row Or there might be agents at the show Or even better someone famous One of the greats Thats far better than me, he wont think Im funny He'll think Im a hack A kid that couldnt laugh his way out a paper bag Mom will probably leave 3 minutes in Cause of the language I use These are what I call Open Mic Blues But Ive got a stage, and I got jokes to tell If I die tomorrow I will hav

Seeing people constantly together Makes me realize how truly alone I am Ive fed this quarter on a string Into the payphone so many times That all Im left with is a bow on my knuckle Thats supposed to remind me of something But whats that fucking number? Just start dailing This is the last call And I'm not drunk yet So just start dailing Maybe I can make a wrong number friend Lay down with the reciever, just start talking I dont even care what language you may speak Or if you've fallen asleep But I havent heard a click yet Or that annoying robot bitch Who tells me my calls been disconnected One more round of rotary dail tones

I'm standing in front of a homemade snowboard park. It's about the size of an olympic swimming pool. A spine runs down the center creating a half pipe on the right. The yellow grind rail running down the center lip of the pipe gives the illusion that someone has urinated while walking a straight line the length of the park. On the left the run begins with a tabletop and is proceeded by a steep hill with a quarter-pipe just past the end of the adjacent half pipe. Two concrete benches parallel the lengths of the pool. The shaved ice machine that I am leaning on puts a stop to questions about how this mini X-Games venue is maintained in a place

Ive always considered myself a conisuer of fine cheeses But Im not abot the feddy cheddar or the bling String come attached to this pinochio poet And if you learn how to hold it I just might dance Not a c-walk, cause Im not cold lampin But ive got acid reflux that burns like a karosine lantern If my roof were as tar coated as my lungs The rain water would stop leaking through my celing I dont spit rhymes cause my words would get wet And the message would run like masscara down my cheek Im a conductorless marienette A baby without a bassenet Sleeping in a drawer with only a tattered blanket I dont get krunk and I dont pack a gat

I slowly move my fingertips down her spine It spirals down her center exciting not only touch but thought Shes got lots of scratches and marks from the past That I dont particularly like But I wont hold it against her After all shes the only one whos stood by my side Through all the rain and the hard times Shes seen first hand how this bright smiling boy Suddenly became Mr. Left behind She never speaks poorly of me But alows me to pass jugment on a daily basis Many times ive hurt her Torn out her insides And left her by the wayside But shes still there welcoming with open arms Every time I come crawling back Shes the one I con