Part 2: this is a poem called fuck metaphors and rhyming and the berkeley poetry slam

papertop forcings.
little bits of word put down for that sake and not much else. to pass the time I suppose. and get the sunshimmer out of my eyes. the sun loves the tops of shoulders and the insides of elbows, spreads warmth like the broad side of a butter knife. yellow sun warmth, fat and rich, dripping down the little canyon trails in a bowl of Cream of Wheat. i eat it up and am warm on the inside. warm on the outside. little lagoons splashing reflections of sunlight up into my eyes and the fronts of my shins and the airplanes tear apart the sky. if you writeread fast enough no one will know what you're saying and everything sounds like it's important, you can never get caught. the clicking of keys is music through whiskey. machine gun hammering stamp letters into a tangible ink and suddenly thoughts are real, no matter how nonsense. there is no way to prove to anyone that you're thinking anything until you take it out of yourself, so the wind blows a sick duck's feather downstream and little slides of sweat pool between my last three fingers. stop and breathe. stop and think. stop and train whistle cordless phone ring. nobody will read anything you write if it doesn't make sense, so I cut the beat for focused measures when really its all about the rhythm, the syllable drumtaps meaning nothing themselves only when put together. think about it together! think about it outloud! mutter to yourself until you're crazy and you feel it or you can at least pretend to! the bottoms of shoes are tired from weight and it's all forced again, back to the beginning life cycles and the gates have closed no matter the push when really you didn't but this is all pretending anyhow.
(I wonder if anyone could do it)