So you're at this bar in East Atlanta.
Lofty, softy East Atlanta.
Where all the lovely cannibals gather in a mass frenzy
of mendacious liveliness
and pseudo-intellectual conversations.
Everywhere you turn
it's the same gang of
disillusioned catastrophes


Husky Hank has a jaw that can cut through concrete.
He's seated in the stool next to mine,
(A handsome brute in the midst of his quarter-life crisis)
hangs his head at an angle,
And begins to sob hysterically.
Snot and all.
From what I can make out,
some damsel had broken his heart due to his lack of stamina and her lack
of support for his band which he says
"kinda sounds like Radiohead before they went mainstream "
Now he can't imagine going on with ought her.
Says life has lost all it's precious meaning.
I want to tell him:
"with a face like yours I could rule the world"
But I let the Greek god howl
For his mortal mistress

There's considerate Cathy in floral slacks
waving her cigarette about like its contagious.
Says she wants to save the world.
But she can't even save herself.
"In the emerging world of ethnic conflict and civilizational clash, Western belief in the universality of Western culture suffers three problems: it is false; it is immoral; and it is dangerous."
She quotes Huntigton ( yes I've read him too)
It's robotic and was almost certainly pre rehearsed periodically in front of a mirror to evade her stammering sputter prone vernacular.
I want to tell her none of us
are really worth saving.
That in a couple thousands of years;
not a single wretched soul will remember the story of a place onece called earth.
But she's still an option
I want to keep open
So I bite my tounge and smile real big

Insufficient Isaac sold
his first painting last week.
Or was it last year ?  

Sarahs singularity

Conors dancing catharsis

Forgettable Francine neglected to
Flower her Siberian Iris's
At 8 o'clock this morning
Now all she wants is a
Fogy eyed
Two bit stranger
To bang her skull against their headboard until she sees god

Sovereign Sally has yet to
spend a single cent of her moms
pension because it makes
her feel secure

I ask her to buy me a drink

Where am I again ?

Trapped.
Engorged in a prison box too small for the swelling of my spiritual rotted flesh.
Given the necrosis of civilizational crumbling had cast it's affect unto me,
I melt in the wading pool of an invisible guard wielding the spear of viral pandemic.
I hold steadfast in my mental capacity.
Only to have the prism of stability rocked by the puncturing of many holes in the hot air balloon that glides through the ice...
I am rocked, shook, and unhinged;
I am the door that sways gently in the breeze to the rocking tides of this astral storm of disease.
All of this chaos in the atoms of my mind's eye...
As I simply lay here.
Trapped.
Engorged in the prison of the mind.
I am my own gatekeeper. A militant simply funded by the fear of the invisible guard.
I blink and sip the coffee, sitting up in the bed.
Shake off the madness, and return to stillness.

Sunscreen and seatbelts. Always carry snacks so I can eat before I'm hungry. I hit the bed before I'm tired. I visit the toilet at the first sign. I exit conversations before things get tense. I pull up google maps while still in the house. I slow down so I won't work up a sweat. I wear thermal underwear so I don't get cold, and always make sure to take off layers before I get too hot. I keep things light so I don't have to face rejection.

Some people were built for different eras. War heroes, in peaceful times, would be sociopaths. Writers wither only rarely from era to era, I hope. It would have ****** to have been a writer when Pol *** declared a civilizational reset, turned the clock to year zero, and executed all those wearing glasses as they appeared "educated" and might have held a glimmer of the past. But for the most part, as a species that thrives on communication, writers remain dynamic.