The Ice Cream Of Life & How To Lick It

Something tells me I have to start caring again. Send something out. Make a fucking effort. But the sun is shining and oh there are so many poets out there already, especially on the couldn't-care-less if-i-hadn't-been-a-poet-i'd-be-a-snake-hipped-gunfighter side, all toiling away feverishly to get their lidl poems into magazines and their chapbooks into your hands. The multitudes who read poetry (other poets) won't miss me while I go and hang out in the park for a while, will they? It's nice out there with the wind blowing your carefully brushed hair out of your pony tail. And all the women have vests on, dude. Now, that's what I call music.