mistake

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,
already.

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rain

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
was
fucked anyway
We still rent vans and trucks to help a friend move
three blocks down the street
What are cities without racial profiling
but
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
doesn’t
like ice-cream.

Jews were burned
but
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
tonight
I was taking a dump
The shortest distance from my poop to
the bowl
is horseshit
practically

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
fuck
up
life

The perfect place to hide from the rain
isn’t
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?
Including
me

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
not
married

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
that
night.

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Together

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
I
won’t
answer

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

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

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Error

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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amra

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.

-Love,
you in the future.

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black eye

I took a walk. Living on a hill usually means it’s a hike so walks seldom occur. There was a man at the bus stop with his dog. We recognized each other and started talking about his being at a bus stop. Neither of us really cared but empty conversations are how real conversations are started. He had a black eye. So did I. His story was normal, involved a misinterpretation at some point in his time at a bar. I didn’t have one. I told him the truth. I woke up with it. I wasn’t at a bar but I had been drinking. I’d spent the last three days inside my cave of a room living off peanut butter, shit movies and gin.

He told me about his one man theater show as we both walked up the hill. I told him I was wondering if I still had a job. He laughed. Everyone always laughed because they always thought I was joking. He was on his way to see his girlfriend whom lived a few blocks from me. I told him I hadn’t had a girlfriend in four years. He told me he was in the middle of remodeling his house. I told him I rented a room from an ad I’d found on craigslist. He told me he could put me on the list for his show. I told him I’d hoped that I would be working. We waved each other goodbye as we got to his girlfriend’s. We both had black eyes.

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