The American Vital

I do things -
when no one's around.

I pick my nose.

I talk to myself -
and answer back.

I kiss my pillow -
to remind myself -
I still know how
to kiss.

I fantasize -
I'm on a game-show.

I fantasize -
about screwing
the American Idol contestants,
all of them.

I fantasize -
I'm on The View,
being interviewed
by Barbara Walters
herself
for doing something -
note-worthy.

I am jealous -
of the makers of "Head-On."

I illegally
download sad songs
so I can remain,
unhappy.

I think -
about getting high.
Sometimes, I do.

I put things -
inside me.

I pee -
in the sink.

I sign in
to the poetry message boards,
and I wonder -
just how long it's
going to take,
before people realize -
I'm a literary genius?

Every other poet
has millions
of comments
placed lovingly
on their poems.

Mine -
aren't even viewed.

I'm glad
I do all those other
fucked up things.

I get my immediate needs
met
regardless.

Who the hell
wants
constructive criticism
anyway?

Famous?
For doing fucked up
things
when I'm alone
and pissing off editors?

Hey, we all
gotta shine
somehow.

Don't we?

By Bryon D. Howell