Maybe I’m chemically predisposed, I don’t know.
I’ve never really got that big cosmic joke, but why do I always feel like I’m struggling?
A state of friction of a plan, a tempo, direction.
Did I not get invited, do have something to share?
Maybe, I’m just old and tired?
Maybe, I’ll sit back sedated and smile.
—-
It’s like I’m a crazed idiot in a sinking ship.
The other passengers pull out their iPhones and record.
Experience nothing in the moment, shared for prosperity.
I’m grabbing a can opener, and supplies.
Why are you so angry they ask?
It’s because I’ve sold your hopes and dreams, and
replaced them with endless hunger.
Your soul will die empty, and I’m in the works to land a deal to profit on
recycling those little fuckers, soon.
Out loud I say nothing of the sort.
I babble on.
Sometimes I’m just scared.
—-
Shouldering the sins of youth.
Well youths.
Like the things that surround.
Circling overhead.
Waiting to chew on my bones.
I’ll make a good broth, consumed, then expelled.
Sometimes I wonder if still be there to enjoy it.
Drowning in fire.
I ponder things, down the rabbit hole.
It calls, invisible to everyday senses.
Energy, mass, breathing, organic mechanics, operator, and
the life and death to give it all a stage.
Perception and judgement give way to completion and power.
The infinite grasp of flawed perfection.
For what proof do we have to behold, irrelevant.
The question, so is green your natural hair color?
The man asks.
The answer, yes.
As I return to urinating, slowly glancing down, making sure I was not aiming at my shoe. Sometimes this is reality.
The best character in this story is one I can only describe as
an obnoxiously clean park restroom.
Am I an extra in fight club?
Am I a neo noir concoction.
Well youths.
Like the things that surround.
Circling overhead.
Waiting to chew on my bones.
I’ll make a good broth, consumed, then expelled.
Sometimes I wonder if still be there to enjoy it.
Drowning in fire.
I ponder things, down the rabbit hole.
It calls, invisible to everyday senses.
Energy, mass, breathing, organic mechanics, operator, and
the life and death to give it all a stage.
Perception and judgement give way to completion and power.
The infinite grasp of flawed perfection.
For what proof do we have to behold, irrelevant.
The question, so is green your natural hair color?
The man asks.
The answer, yes.
As I return to urinating, slowly glancing down, making sure I was not aiming at my shoe. Sometimes this is reality.
The best character in this story is one I can only describe as
an obnoxiously clean park restroom.
Am I an extra in fight club?
Am I a neo noir concoction.