run out of misery
or it will outrun you
like usain bolt.

never join sam's club -
it is not a grocery store,
it is a cult.

if you get a girl
pregnant
it isn't your fault;

you'll understand more
when you're an adult.

the sun heats the water
to a scalding soup;
his skin boils like its cooking.
he rises from the sea,
untethered and free
like the loch ness monster
when no one is  looking.

he sinks into the water,
pretends to be a starfish,
and regrows his limbs.
he goes home, with sand
in his gucci flip flops
and plays him some sims.

the strangest sight does not perturb me
the strongest wind can not rustle me
i have seen the grass grow and die
i've seen the vultures feast and fly
i am a helpless standerby

i tip my hat
to the crows who land on my shoulder as if to say,
"you do not scare me,"
for i do not mean to.

Dying one by one, day by dying day, unphased, we dug you makeshift graves, as players in nature’s ****** games. Oh, calf I sat with all night, as you went out like the light of a staggering candle - half the way I felt, smoothing out your ratted pelt, prepared me not to gaze but glare at God.

Weary, we carried your bodies and buried them in the backyard; not hard, you just need a tractor or a strong stomach. We lifted your body down into wet mud, which swiftly sunk it. Plunk - we set down our shovels. The other cows huddled in a bubble ‘round your place of rest, bereft - and then, I’m sorry, but we left.

“gas your trash paintings of jesus’ head
and exchange your cross for some cash.
It’s a known fact that god is dead; we fought,
he and i -  bashed, he passed,
simply automatic, undramatic as that.
I yelled to the sky, “the guy is gone, at last!”
I danced on his grave and bade his descent,
and the next holy role call, he was marked absent.”
-Hehehehe in Hell

“just shut it, satan,
you are the worst.
i’m writing a poem,
go eat some dirt.”
-Wisdom William

friends are not objects to keep.
they have lives beyond you,
and more important things to do.
they're ever-changing as the leaves,
with shifting values and beliefs.

solitude's a sickness, that creeps
and crawls, a savvy spider;
solitude's a sneaky snake, a viper, coiling tighter.

soon, you will get used to it, the lack
of laughter, the endless quiet.
then you will make friends anew,
but someday soon, they will leave too,
you can't do much to fight it.

starved for your tepid touch,
i don't speak, and don't ask much.

i can't give you what he can;
i can’t even be a man,

but i've never known such class
as your tapping on my glass.

simply, i like you a lot;
it's too bad i've got fin rot.