My name is James Philip Saunders and these are my dirt bike poems. High five the unseen vertex. The bike launches tellingly upwards. Guzzling gas in pursuit of its vision. And when the vertex is reached. The engine will hum a sigh of achievement. And descend with a falcons grace. And land with practiced precision. And as the spectacle wraps up. The audience will clap beneath.

Poetry about family and everyday things. As I walked in the graveyard. Like I so often do. I found a small headstone. With an old Concrete shoe. It seemed to be worn from. Time spent on top of a stone. Yet it seemed to fit perfect. Like it felt right at home. I thought of the strong winds. That did not make it fall. The snow and the ice storms. The rain and sunshine it saw. I thought of the days. After days that it stood. On a hill all alone.

With song parodies by Smell Silverstein. Monday, July 16, 2012. Is this my rectum? Smells like a sewer. No escape from my anal glands. Butter up my thighs and flee. Because I fart real fast. This is how my wind blows deadly fecal splatters from me. Mama, just killed a man. Pressed my ass against his head. Mama, I had just had lunch. And then I went and farted in his face.

Thursday, November 22, 2012. Im thankful for hope and audacity,. My friends, I adore,. But then, even more,. I treasure my stomachs capacity. Wednesday, October 31, 2012. Peter, Peter pumpkin-eater,. Arent you tired of this old meter? Remove your wife from pumpkin shell. And once shes outside, treat her well. A little bit o spice, a little bit o sweet. A little bit o something delicious to eat. Pancakes are perfect for being discreet-. Peter, Peter pumpkin-eater,.