There are 30,600 seconds in an
      eight and a half hour day of work.
           Each subsequent is a sharpened
              tool of useful motivation to help me
                  alleviate my inventiveness...but
                      the value of my individuality
                         is ejected into a bottomless
                           pit of redundancy and wasted
                               on slave labor and dolor.
                           The duration of time with my
                        12 eyes is pillaged and plundered
                  by the imperialist pirates of propriety.
               They kick you when you're down
             and make you smile about it.
          That's why you need a day off
        before and after your weekend.
     Mercifully, half my work day
   is spent in the bathroom,
    where all the business and
      communicating with the
         outside world gets done
            and I can write my poems
              and escape into the abyss
                 of my own creativity.
                   All of my poems have
                     either started, finished,
                        fully written or re-edited
                           in the bathroom.
                             If I told you this poem wasn't
                          written in the bathroom than
                        I'd be lying to you and there's
                      no reason for that.
                   There's not much to look at except
                 two bare walls, one bare stall door
              and a toilet paper dispenser but
           that's more motivation than all
        the dullard coworkers combined.
      ......And if the
   shower is cold and
the hobo's clean and
  the beer is warm and
    the grass isn't green and
      the ****** are dry and
        the **** is wet and
          the money is scare in the
            rich man's eye and
             the air is breathable,
              religion is believable
                and the mosquitoes are
                  tolerable to the young
                    man's mind, then....
                      me and the popcorn man will sit on
                    the highest skyscraper of wet hair,
                  eating flavored ice and watching
                the yellow skies as it rains snakes
              into my gums and I can live a life
           without fear and have prosperity.
         It's better to live a local
        legend without notoriety
      and be discovered
    after your death than
  to die a sell out with
global stardom
of longevity.

tears in my eyes
and stormy clouds
thunders seek
to make me rain down on you

closing in are
the sounds
of humidity
the magnitude
of falling
pressures

now these  
once fluffy
things turned dark and
violet
angry

I reposed
back on red earth
quandering
my head to the west
my feet ready to run
under the nearest tree

pull her limbs to me
hide
in plain sight
yet  
accepting my course

seeing seeking some
kind of
roaring clasp
maybe I am
ashamed

or feel my sins are
unforgivable

I watched you fade away,
At a quicker pace
Than the bruises you left, on my body.