Jason Schneiderman is my favorite poet...

Jason Schneiderman is now my favorite poet ever to live i must say. Here are a few of his amazing poems. You may not like him, but i seriously wish that I had his style of writing.
AMAZING!


Charlie Brown in a Well
At the bottom of the well
my round head is no longer



funny. I can not see the
zig zag on my shirt or



even the yellow. I touch the
single hair on my head



and hope that it never falls out





A Story about Nutrition
Her womb was barren, and it made them sad,
but in the Nursery outside their local Giant



they saw a bag that said 'fertilizer'
and they believed it. They were happy,



parents-to-be, bought the largest bag,
and drove home faster than usual.



She wasn't pregnant yet,
so they hefted the weight upstairs



to the master bedroom together,
where he filled the bed with the rich black soil



and she climbed into the bed
and he buried her, tamping the earth
around her naked body.



He said nothing as she lay there,
but he was haunted by a childhood experiment
where he had watered plain earth, no seeds,



and things grew out of it,
slender, green, parentless shoots
born of the earth.



When at last she swelled up,
he remained silent,
did not voice his distress



that he might not be responsible,
and when she bore their child,
he smiled at her, and looked away.





Hydration
It started around the same time
she'd gotten kidney stones for the first time,
this obsession with water
and her belief in its importance.


It became the source of all problems physical:
headaches, exhaustion, indigestion, constipation...
Her research was ruthless and thorough.
All things pointed to water,



to multiple glasses of water
and the wait for the relief
hydration would bring.



We became connoisseurs of water,
keeping bottles in the car
and filters in the fridge



We bought backpacks and hip flasks,
boy scout canteens and leather bladders



until it had consumed us
and we couldn't get through the day



without twelve glasses each
and we couldn't go anywhere

without a bathroom in sight,
and when we turned to her

to ask, what now? She was gone.
Drifted away.

And none of us had noticed.

I Love You and All You Have Made
The flowers are shocking on our shell shocked block, where everything is your doing—the garden plot you wrested from the concrete with jackhammers and bordered with cinderblock, the soil you carted home in the wheelbarrow, the bulbs I helped you pick, the jasmine you ordered on-line, the rose bushes you brought home on the bus. I've always marveled at your passion for plants—the custom made boxes on Fifty-seventh Street, the hanging baskets on South Portland, the way that the plants grow for you, the way that the cuttings hang on for you, yearsat a time. The only plant I ever did well with was a Ficus Tree named Charlie who would only grow in my room, and I still believe it was because he loved me. Some days I flatter myself to think that I'm one of your flowers. Some days I flatter myself to think I'm not.