What the f*ck?

immediate respect a my, respect turning money disappoint.
here principle mischievous pride the. out prison already mischievous prison. anything latter off already.
my letters again prison, edge principle miserable,
off bought friends happened mentioned, taught make servants,
studied is am here am.

Of Fake Cheeses

Two slices of whole-wheat bread,
with those nuts and grains embedded in it
Not overly-brown because that kind is bitter.
Two and a half tomatoes, sliced.
The small kind because we don't have the big ones.
Half of an avacado, very ripe, almost too much so.
Slam the knife into the thick seed, twist, and pull.
Sliced vertically, obviously.
A generous dabbing of mustard on the toasted bread.
Oh yeah, the bread slices were toasted.
Maybe some parmesean cheese, the flaky kind
because we don't have slices of other cheese
except the fake kind, which is wrong.

A bear in stone.

She told me, "People who cuss can't think of nothing smarter to say."
Then she gave me a cookie. I had lost my lunch. It tasted old.
She lived in that closet. She slept in it, she didn't bathe in it

She dragged around the carelessness and lack of consideration
Of the entire community behind her, tipped towards her
On two wheels that squeeked and fought to be free.

She was gone, but I had forgotten to thank her first.
So I went back out there, and I cussed
Because I couldn't think of nothing smarter to say.


Her nose was hooked, and her hair was straight.
Her skin was wrinkly, like a shirt when you need it
to not be wrinkly.

She kept relocating me, putting me in a different place,
I was told to face corners, as if the wall was less interesting
She was not more interesting than the wall

It was always my fault, I guess my lips could speak without movement
I guess my shoulder launched itself into the fingers of another, tap tap
I guess my ear threw a lasso into the throats of the others, and pulled out whispers


Then I was scared. I was scared because there wasn't
Anyone else out there but I was still out there in the grass
Waiting to be saved, to be taken back home

So I tugged on his belt, because I was short and could not reach
A face rose out of a shoulder like the sun, irritated
He said my time would come, not to be impatient

So I waited, and I was scared now to ask again
Because the sun hadn't been very warming that day
There was a bear in stone, but it didn't keep my company.

The Office.

Approach my office, and first marvel from the outside.
See its stacco pinkish walls, its large open windows.
The door is glass, seemingly inviting, but the handle
The handles are too nice to touch.
The door is so delicate as to keep you out
If it shatters, that's your ass.

My driveway slopes and curves, winding
plumetting down like a snake
Or like stocks, into a depth
Into the parking garage, which is frankly
nothing too special.

But excuse its drab concrete walls and pillars
For they are sturdy, and perilous in their own right
The garage is very large, there is plenty of space.

The elevator room is a forrest.
Flat trees, unchanging scenery
Greenery all around and the sound of wet insects chirping.
There's a trash can, slightly out of place in a forrest
But it's made of gold, the shape of a bullet
Standing proud on its own. Look out for the birds above us.

My elevator is beautiful, much more so
than any elevator you might have
Unless this office is yours, because
there are mirrios, and real wood, and fake gold
Only two floors, but why take the stairs
There is a very beautiful elevator.

The inside of the office is nice too.
But I don't have to fucking impress you.

Who is they?

Who is they, who tells me everything I ever wanted to know,
Along with the pretty business
of everything I never wanted to know?
Who is they?

I imagine they wear glasses, as I'm told smart folks do
Although I'm sure it was they that say so.
Can they be trusted, then, to be disinterested?
I imagine their big oak desk, even bigger than mine
They must be important, because their oak desk is very large.

Who is they that give the most indifferent of advice
As if they cared, as if the situation was pertinent to them
But the world is connected, I to them and they to me, but again
It was they that say so.

Perhaps their glasses have horned rims, I fancy they do.
They hair is all cropped short, they suits are well pressed
And even further, they are well made.
They faces are stuffed, that goes without saying,
For their breaks are long and paid for.

But the faces of they must be slim, slim and wise
Youthful wisdom, the bitterness gone and replaced
With a smug smile, a mug with their name on it.

The Rotten Apple.

With a fist of stone I slam
Slam this phone upon this table and
the pieces shatter, scattering into the distant
corners to shudder and hide and
shelter, helter skelter
"GET OUT!" Beckoning, begging.
But relentless, "GET OUT!" Get out now.
Somewhere, there are pits and puddles
Boiling over with the gaseous sulphery stench
Rotten eggs, so they say
Or a rotten apple, laid out softly on a park bench
Nestled between hard wood and newspaper
Or in a door way, there is a surreptitious crack
Heat flows in a river, but the river
is insignificant in size, too small
"GET OUT!" The bell rings like a memory.
Preseves jarred like a sound, jerked like meat in the package
Like a fart in the wind, or pissing in a crowded bank.
And in a haphazard package, made of soft fibers and harsh words
My rotten little apple gets squishier, smellier
Lying under that newspaper on the cold park bench.