When the fat prick spat in my face
and called me a hippie,
I wasn't sure if it was
better or worse
than being called a hipster poser
in the city.
The fat pricks,
the shitty poets,
and the saliva
are all the same.
Pointless plot twists in
a headache of trite storytelling.
And you can ask Plato if his
"is-ness" really meant all that much,
and you can ask Bukowski if he
found the celestial kissing the clitoris,
and you can ask the drunken Catholic dukers
if the clover has a damn thing to do with it,
and you can ask the caterpillars that
don't want to be butterflies,
and they'll all bark the same interwoven tune:
nobody is right,
God is a coward,
my boss owes me reparations ,
and any dumb dog spouting off superiority
needs a steel muzzle and a molecular transfusion.