I’m a rat-tat-tattling gun
You hear the stream of my gun
You know my words are no fun
You’ll find it’s no use to run
You see I blot out your son

I’m a rat-tat-tattling gun
I work in administration
I **** your reputation
I send your resignation
I ‘tack with no causation

I’m a rat-tat-tattling gun
You see no rules of war
You won’t stop me from putting, you to the floor
You see the ink splotch on the paper, the only gore
You can’t ignore the screaming shots.

Thank you math for giving me reason,
You allow me to differentiate,
Reality and imaginary,
To let me ignore every malfeason,
Allow me to explore and find my base,
Truly ascend and exponentiate.

Everything’s on the test and it’s a race,
If I am in the denominator,
I rationalize when necessary,
Or I divide up my many problems,
Never rely on a calculator,
To solve for the unknown variable.

Calculus taught me to not think so hard,
Because my dilemmas can be fractals,
I must invariably disregard,
And someday, my speedy trajectory,
Will lead me to a rising asymptote,
I just have to hope, and stay positive.

Every pink pustule pounds my skin like an artillery bar-
rage. Your horde swells with my stress, bubbles up from my
rage. Volcano head, a v of violent irritations between my brow.
Doctors prescribe petroleum products to ease the water pressure
from your oily fracking.
Every splotch a rig rising up over the water, and YOU
place every dot target practice for pointed looks. No mythical halcyon
calms the red waves and YOU,
the construction company placing rows of pylon.
Risking lifelong scars pounding railroad spikes across the Great Plains,
With no grand plan or project to mask my pains


With what form you take, it must be the most
Awful, vile, loathing, malignance of being,
Where you cannot be complacent in your own immutable form,
that you must plague others with your
adolescent pestilence.

But a pestilence of lilies’ dot
the starry pond
The lovely constellations,
have no need for an Andromeda,
And have no worries, for my residents are no Cancer,
And that hope of divine light shining through such inconsequential motes,
also shines through, bathing my face
before I sleep, night after night,
And I see the stars through my rosy windows, as I lay back in my cot.
And where Greek Gods so methodically placed every gentle blót,
a cherished love had never not known the halls of my temples.

I am afraid to end this poem
The year comes to a close too shortly
   I fear it is an ominous omen
That I will sparsely remember fondly.

I have been alive nearly two decades,
           And in 2020,  I turn 19:
     To find myself wandering Cascades
Pondering to see what I glean.

But I foolishly plead to have this be my year, our year.
   Not a year of the pig but a year of the horse’s glory.
                That we shall premier or fear to be sincere.
          This is our story to be told in our oratory.

This is my final year, my undying year,
  My undying fear, felt itself tense up,
When they demanded I take a career
In speculating the woes of grown ups

I deride my festooning derision
                On the chains of Putin and the Zuck,
  And they have not swayed my sick decision
To reminisce on our gnarly luck,

   Because I find that Spongebob Squarepants taught
  values of persistent positivity.
      To blow bubbles at an askance onslaught,
Grit buck teeth in the maw of adversity.

          I watched a nostalgic minecraft parody.
      A three part series about maturity.
       It powerfully displayed our legacy.
       Captainsparklez made it for our posterity.

   I planted my last tomato seeds
   In the brackish mounds of my garden,
         To return aged with a great many deeds,
    With cash for the deed to my Tarpan steed.

           I hope four years don’t saddle me with debt
     Or wandering an infernal Lethe
        With a briquette of burning, licking sweat
  Tied to me, it exhausts me of slipping breath
I hope that I may make my living death

          towards the hopes I lay my head to rest:
January 1st, may this year be blessed.

6 0’ clock
and the string of doors on the block
creak open in unison,
The briny smell of sizzling, leathery bacon accretes,
Seeping forth from pale shutters,
Peeling past the cars, stripping beige paint off the sides of houses.
The morning drizzle, forming tiny rainbows,
You would think it was acid rain,
melting away the plastic people.

Midday, after only an hour passes
and white wine splashes
like crashing waves in the crystalline stemware,
Where orderlies dazedly rescue their children from the montessories
Where power lines crack like whips,
So generously oozing sustenance to babes.
The civiliter mortuus, roam their undead domain,
Like a swarm of cockroach wasps
speed walking in parasitic pairs
darting through Safeway aisles,
Demolishing houses of white chocolate, and roasting sweet nothings
On the new George Foreman Grill ™ .

Every house on loan to apathetic debtors
They come to yours with their holy letters
PTA, … IRA … NSA … HOA
They proselytize, prioritize
Themselves over forest bears and wolves,
But where only hedge trimmers growl
The only Tuesday sounds are the behemoth
Devouring your trash,
And where leaf blowers asthmatically howl.