those questions

The road was made of cobblestone, was winding and as far as the eye could see. Nothing was at the end that the eye could discern. Yet, some mason was there to piece and mold each stone. I had the wrong shoes on, of course I had the wrong shoes on to walk this bumpy stone path. Nevertheless, it was the only path there was.


There was something on the path in the distance. The only difference in the scenery was that alluring shine. Yellow, almost gold. As I approached it it began to take the form of of a key. A gold skeleton key type with a bottle opener as part of its bow. I placed it in my left breast pocket to take with me to seemingly nowhere.

Soon I came upon a cup. More like a chalice, gold in color and it had had been lain on its side with all its contents spilled. An empty chalice with different gems embedded within a black band around the rim. I debated whether or not to take it with me. I thought I may not have had enough room in my bag, but I may be able to barter it at some point. It seemed unlikely that I would run into someone on this road let alone have this someone possess anything of which I wanted to barter for. But I stuffed it in my bag, just in case. I walked on.

The next thing I saw was a tree. It was an adolescent orange tree. The trunk was long and thin but I recognized the leaves. It yielded no fruit yet, but I was able to rest a moment beneath its shade. Still wearing the wrong shoes. I thought, ‘what a dope fucking tree this is gonna be one day, I wonder if I can come back. With the right shoes.” I moved on after a time. There it was, finally, the end of the road. Almost as if it came from nowhere. It was a wall. The wall was made of cobblestone too. The same kind I walked on to get here. There wasn’t a gate or a door at the end of the path, just wall. ‘Did some asshole spend his time making this prank? Miles and miles of it?’ It’s a good joke. But I immediately pulled out my key and began searching every crevasse between the stones for a keyhole. There has to be a trapdoor and I would find it. I kept looking and a giant cobblestone wall simply stared back.

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You’re young
You make mistakes
You learn
You make mistakes
You’re and adult
You make mistakes
You readjust
You make mistakes
You get comfortable
You make mistakes
You get married
You make mistakes
You live happily ever after
You make mistakes
You divorce
You make mistakes
You readjust
You make mistakes
You start again
You make mistakes

You can’t be surprised
You’ve seen it,

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the cocks of the Spaniards and the Greeks were okay,
and my grandma had boils
What’s his name came up with the heliocentric theory and
fucked anyway
We still rent vans and trucks to help a friend move
three blocks down the street
What are cities without racial profiling
places condensed with weird fuckers?
Tutankamen would’ve loved bacon
and nobody says shit about
what happened on the hills around Rome
Babe Ruth still called that smack and
no one
like ice-cream.

Jews were burned
we got Beethoven
and even the Jews
don’t really give a shit

I heard coyotes
and a small caliber pistol
with its trigger pulled
three times
I was taking a dump
The shortest distance from my poop to
the bowl
is horseshit

I saw a piñata in the park getting bashed
On my way to work
Children should hate donkeys
I thought
Bacchus partied with donkeys!
And satyrs
Half collegiate and half ass

We buried our pets
We spoke to each other
We listened
We have all had that splinter in the foot

Rebecca is a lesbian
Allie has a new baby
Rachel is discovering how to

The perfect place to hide from the rain
in the closet
in the crowds
in death
in the back of a rape-van on the 5 freeway

The perfect place to hide from the rain
is in the rain
A coyote howls
Nobody can tell you about your dreams but you
Snails crawl
Flies fly
Hummingbirds hum
Cats meow
Shit happens
Your toes
Shuffling under the sheets
With someone else’
Is beautiful
What’s mine is yours
What’s ours is ours

The rats know our names

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that’s how it is

It was a house-warming party. I’d just moved in.
People surged, drinks flowed, spilled drinks on the floor
of which I’d have to clean up in the morning
But who gave a fuck about the morning?

This cat walks up to me and says
“Hey man, your wife is awesome.”
And I say,”I’m not married.”
He says some other shit but I
confirm the fact that I am

Was this my house?
I wasn’t sure until I went
into the kitchen
for a refill
Then  this young thing comes up to me and says,
“Hey, baby,” kisses me
and reaches below my belt for the goods.
I don’t fight it and
she was|
my wife

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How long must you live till you wonder if you’ve lived long enough.
Death waits for you, like the UPS man for a check.
Like a dog about to jump on your bed

I feel bad for my girlfriend
She’ll be the first to see my cold, dead body
when the cancer’s done
She’ll shake me
and again
Then yell my name

Dying doesn’t worry me
It’s her of whom I worry
When she finds me to be nothing

I need her to know
all the times
slept next to her
Aside the dumb
were things
I cherished
And the tough things I couldn’t
But can say now,
I love you.

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Everything breaks. 25 days sober but it means nothing in the end. The game will pause to load, the elevator will stall, the fish will die en masse, the bagger at the grocery store still has a college degree. This is us. The concerns of wars are always short of retardation, the factories are still closing, nobody speaks to anyone at a bar. On the street. They fight instead. No fists nor techniques, just knives and guns. Over funny looks even. This is us. It’s cheaper to die in a hospital than to live. It’s cheaper to plead guilty in court than justice. The jails are full of horseshit innocence and the convalescent homes are ready to close, always, because who gives a flying fuck. They had their chance. We keep giving money to the rich assholes that don’t know how to flush. A bidet. We…

Still, we clock in and clock out. Gotta make those hours. Dying for those hours. If you have a job. You shut the fuck up because you have a job. Your balls are gone because you have a job. You blaze or drink because you have a job. Your parents left you nothing. You think it’s the only way. You forget spending your time is the most expensive thing to do. Covered in piss. Someone else’s piss. You’re pissed, angry and human.

There’s a black spot where your heart used to be, among the other black spots from sins and shit. Take a knife, take a gun, boil bleach. Strangle yourself. Maybe just hold your breath. This is us. That’ll remind you of our finite life. This is us, who were left with nothing to start from but demise, our progenitor [the great Americas] already in debt and unable to finance fancies. The banks will burn through friction. Money will burn from friction. People will kill and kill again. Guns. Masses. Mobs. Friction. Property is horseshit when it dries. Meltdowns. The earth shaketh. Stalkers. Robots. Robot stalkers. They see you. Rich assholes in space. Putting the square in the square hole is Dante’s Inferno. Dante saw naught of our gestating hell.

The sun’ll be black at an eternal witching hour. Dead trees. Dead crops. Eat ourselves or someone else will. Oceans fucked. Lakes, rivers… where? Clasp your hands and dance for rain. The wind feels dark. The smells, darker. New diseases, the only new things that’ll matter. The rich assholes eat themselves too. Then silence. Beautiful without the silent screams and silent squirms. Never heard before. This is us.

This generation so lost and inane, our last hurrah. Who dares to come back to this place?

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Comfort in life is strange. Among other things. Personally, comfort involves bits of the strange and the stress. What is life without that anyway? Probably a waste of time. I have a hard nine to fiver that I got strictly of luck as my work. Work as in it providing sustenance. Then I have the job which is that artistic expression you must execute in order to stave off madness. The work and the job. It’s 2014, and we either go on or go crazy.

So I have a job as a waitress in a sort of truck-stop diner, though trucks don’t stop here and I’m a man. It just falls into suit with the description because that is what it feels like. I don’t loathe my job, in fact the pay is quite hefty in comparison to previous jobs. I literally do as little work as required and that’s more than enough. If I were to guess, I made as much as a tradesman or any other that specialized in a specific field. I was simply a waitress, but I knew what the fuck I was doing.

This didn’t just come across me, though the hiring and the result thereof did feel like it fell into my lap. The last time I had an incredibly comfortable position, I worked for an Armenian man that drove a proverbial beamer and smoked the fanciest of cigars. [He also owned a cigar shop] I was his product supervisor and I assumed aggressor because I had my own office and I only had to make our products sound necessary. Antivirus and all that other shit about computer security. I gave less than a shit about it. But I was efficient. Logical. Legal. All that shit. I even had my own office. An office! I was right across from a yoga studio. Nonetheless, I enjoyed my lunchbreaks very much, especially during the dirty dog stretch. …I mean the downward dog. Well… who gives a fuck. But I eventually left. For the 7 months I was there, they were the 7 most unproductive months of my life.

I suppose that’s why comfort in life is strange. Okay, I don’t suppose it because it’s true. I’ve been moonlighting at this quaint little bakery as a baker. I’d never baked before. After two days, I was offered a position as the head baker. Full-time. A full-time position anywhere is a blessing of sorts. Shit sucks fucking dick everywhere because no one can get a job. We’re aware that the government statistics of unemployment were low and getting better but that’s only because they’re not including the people that are officially bankrupt. They’re actually excluded from statistics. They’re broke as fuck. Classic loophole. Well played, assholes, well played.

As a moonlit baker, I refused any pay they tried to give me. Yes, it sounds stupid and borderline insane, but I literally don’t have to give a fuck what you think. Thing is, most of us are under an illusion of what’s good or great and it’s something to live by. But that basically means somebody else has standards that were so dope that you decided to live by them Who’s standards were you supposed to live by though? Another’s? Yours? Jesus? Cock and balls, man. Or woman. …Don’t give a shit. We sell ourselves short if we try to come off like anyone else.

Work or job? It’s literally up to you which one you wish to delegate your life. But fuck you, anyway.

you in the future.

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