*testing* *testing*

Frank Lloyd Wright
left a stool sample
on the cushions of
my lawn couch and
refuses to clean up
after himself.

He is drunkenly staring
into my ice box,
looking for the heroin
his mom left him
while she was at work.

All he watches is the
f***in' history channel
waiting for his biography
to come on again,
waiting to tell
me how all that shit is
wrong and how he did
every black and white
woman that flashes across
the screen.

"Get off that f***in phone
you son of a bitch!"

He keeps trying to order
hair paint and a
gun that writes in metal studs
spelling out his
name on his suit coats.

I have been trying to
get him to leave, but he's
a national f***in' treasure.

"Look man, you didn't design
this place. Two blocks
down there are three people living
in one of your duplexes. Their
assholes slam closed like
a screen door anytime they hear
the words 'domestic beer'.
Why don't you go live with them?"

He ain't leaving.

I'm running out of
groceries and he just
plugged up my toilet with
a copy of the Smithsonian.

I gotta work in an hour
and this prick is ordering
a pizza on my credit card.

I hate artists.