here's a short prose poem

I had a strange feeling today. I was touching my own hands and thinking about the evolution of man, how hands and fingers and arms and legs even came to be; and then I was struck with a feeling of self-awareness and something else... I couldn't tell if it was a realization of a complete and total absence of god, or a complete and total presence of god.

I

My name is Scott Baker.
I wear glasses,
I have reddish-blondish-brownish hair,
I have freckles
and a modest beard.

I am six foot one,
one hundred and eighty pounds.

I write poems about my problems
because I think they matter,
because I think I matter.

But I don't.

I matter to my friends and family,
but to you,
to the world,
to the universe...
to the fucking universe

I am a molecule.

Dust

There are no hills in Nebraska,
only dust
and flurries of snow in December.

I touched down alone.
In the plane
I saw helicopter search lights.

I told her about what I saw,
and she said
she didn't see a thing.

I asked her if she loved me,
and she said
she had only eyes for me.

I spent Christmas with her,
and she said
she couldn't be more happy.

We decorated the tree
and she
even let me hang the star.

We ate out every night
and she
wouldn't let me pay.

I exited the airport terminal
and she
cried for two hours.

I asked her if she loved me three years later
and she said
she didn't see a thing.

Bad Poem

So this poem is really pretty bad, I wrote it in like.... 30 seconds and I'm going to edit it as I type it on here so yeah.... it's kind of prose, by the way.

GRANT

When I went away to college, my parents sold my childhood home.
Nobody would buy it, so in an act of desperation they traded it for a mobile home and some amount of money.
The mobile home belonged to my eighth grade English teacher, Glenn Kenney.
He had four children, three boys and a girl,
I went to school with two of the boys.

In visiting my parents, I stay in what I presume to be one of the boys' former rooms.
I looked up at the ceiling today and carved into the cottage cheese was a name.
GRANT
There was a Grant in my high school,
he was an asshole to me and cemented in me my eternal hate for him and the name Grant.
He often spent time with the boys who lived here prior and therefore,
I can only assume it was his meaty, sweaty, sooty, fingers which scrawled his name into my parents' relatively new home.

Seeing this made me feel like he had some sort of personal malediction against my family and me.
How dare you desecrate our home with your filthy, poorly written name you unsophisticated scum?!
Obviously, he didn't do it out of any form of spite for me or my family due to the fact that this happened before my parents moved in,
but I like to think he did.

What brings someone to perform such an act in the first place?
You always gave my friends and me shit, Grant.
All you did was smoke weed and fuck with us after school,
and now I have to look at your ill-favored name on my ceiling.
GRANT

Last post I said to go to the myspace, but the facebook page for I Can See Everything is more active and attended to so........ go to that!
http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/I-Can-See-Everything/116413385040941?ref=ts

New Project

So my friend Victor and I decided to start an experimental music project based on my poetry which is a combination of spoken word and this kind of relaxing electronic music. Listen now please :)

http://www.myspace.com/icanseeeverythingmusic

Short

i invented a word for this one sentence poem. it has no title


The cold, biting air brings a welcome gift into my ensickened lungs.