I take so much clothing with me, heaploads.
I bum change and leave a message, I'm gone.

the birds are eating up a storm, my mother says. they are all named after poets & my favorite is Bukowski.

I wrote a song about being a bird, you know. about the halfway home & it’s painted-shut windows.
in fact, I’m in my own band. it's called, “indians on drugs.”

I threw up in class on my first day and was told, I should leave.
I really need to stop shooting up heroin.

there is a kid with grubby fingernails that tries to kiss me, looks for rubies in the sand.
he claims he is famous & throws fits like you wouldn't believe while everyone is trying to toast bagels & watch music television, at the house in the projects ( Read more... )

I should never talk to him again.

I know I know,
but my heart has been to concentration camps and back,
bunk beds, bus stops,
a lonely and freezing winter.

I don't like vegetables, but I eat them when I'm hungry.
you get the idea.

no more!

trailer-parker, you are a most wonderful person ( Read more... )

this kid stood me up so I wrote him a letter and it read: "you stood me up!"
no return address, no anything.

well I'm warning you flakes, monsters, easy lays: Nobody's going to fuck with jaime kleinkauf.
not anymore.

you know, I'm a vegetarian.
people ask me, "how do you get your protein?" to which I reply, "I don't."

you know, I have poor vision.
people ask me, "why don't you wear your glasses?" to which I reply, "I prefer to be BLIND!"

I throw up all morning
& pretend like I have "gotten away with" something.