Biography of Carl A.I.
A freethinker, an atheist, a drunk, a comedian, a music lover, a blackjack player, a lover, a fighter, a child, a man, a feminist, a wildfire, not photogenic, a smoker, a reader, a writer, thankful, a broken down midwestern town, a Mates of State fan, strong, proud, free, not in love, semi-tall, semi-skinny, single, a storge style lover, a pool shark, an average student, Buddhist, a seeker of knowledge and truth, a decent cook, a decent friend, and a poet.
Carl A.I.'s Works:
Grammatical Errors: Monthly Zine. For more information e-mail email@example.com
Carl A.I. Poems
Your diaphanous neglige, wrinkled, wadded in your purse like your intentions. My sycophantish responses kept latent as well. We both know what we want but won't bring it to light
The budding of spring is covered by a thin layer of goose down. This is the marking of a new life. The old one passed away with the fall memories.
A New Beginning.
The spring has come to us like a well kept promise you and I travel south to the wind whipped clay floored deserts of Southern Utah
Words are lost in the playing field of love. Scattered about like loose change The maggot words that leave my lips
Death At Dinnertime
I invited Death to dinner today to discuss some things over lightly salted mashed potatoes
I just killed off a bottle of wine and found bukowski at the bottom poetry makes love to you
God Bless Our Troops
The war is over! The war is over! The Buddha told me that short and fat far more compassionate than you Christians
Cat howls at the open door Dog meows at the full moon Human roars upon command The writer declines a gin martini
The Trip With Ashlie And Jason
Driving through the open range; the mountains, and the plains, with friends who's names I have not yet forgotten, like all the rest of them.
We've all been black, We all been white. We've all been to hell and back and know how to fight. I'm in this deep, I excavate triple layers. I eliminate war vets
Ahhh how menstural cramps make love to you in the oddest of ways
How often need we be reminded that blood pouring from
Climb the ladder of success all that happens is your hand gets smashed
The telephone is alive and well but that doesn't mean that you are.
In the fall,
when our posthumous souls
are buried in the ground like tulip bulbs,
will we push our way above the dirt
Will God still recognize us?
When our delicate brains are eaten
by thought ending maggots,
is there anything left of our lives?