don't want any more assholes

i don't want any more assholes
inside my paintings or in my morning cereal;
and no more spilled milk or cold water on the floor.
i tried to tell myself everything was super cool
but knew i just couldn't take it anymore.
maybe i ran out of gas or imagination
while walking on the frantic eastern shore:
i tried my hand at an expensive vacation.
i tried to persuade a fantasy
to run away with me,
but as luck would have it i climbed to the top
of the nearest witness tree.
i bought a blazingly fast racehorse and then bought ten more
and soon they lost all my money;
i was reduced to sweeping up shit from their apartment floor.
i handed over my trusty Bowie knife,
grabbed a favorite wooden spoon to stir up another crack at life
but it was all done tongue-in-cheek
with a recipe i tried to sell in Philadelphia at least once a week.
never did i doubt that those damn horses could run
or that a mysterious woman could be an exceptional artist and want to create
a masterpiece if it wasn't too late.
and in my new venture, doubtlessly inspired,
i wanted to be the next President but i was just too tired,
washing away all my post-depression fears
with shots of Irish whiskey and snorts of bubbling coke.
someone on the street corner said this all must be some kind of joke!
i found fresh memories from a distant past
laid them out in a neat row in front of my empty alley home;
i told everyone i was packing bags and headed out to roam;
and then she reappeared on her totem tree making extra room for me;
she called my name while dusting off a stressless reclining chair,
so i took her to the shower and asked if i could wash her hair.