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going to sleep already with morning breath
because time is a circle drawn by a drunk
and my body has declared itself an autonomous collective
voting against the tyranny of basic hygiene
this is the ultimate expression of freedom
to taste tomorrow's decay in yesterday's mouth
while the universe expands like a yawn
and somewhere in Lisbon a statue is questioning
its commitment to permanence
I have become the architect of my own deterioration
building empires of unwashed sheets
and calling it a revolution against the orthodox passage of days
this is what the history books won't tell you:
every great civilization began
with someone too tired to brush their teeth
2025, Lost Lounge Massacre
my dentist believes in qi now

she used to drill teeth like a woman
possessed by the grind,
BMW in the parking lot
gleaming like processed cheese.

now she burns sage in the waiting room
while reading about
the fundamental interconnectedness
of dental plaque and the universe.
"your cavities," she says,
"are quantum phenomena."

i watch her wave crystals
over my open mouth
while discussing the metaphysical properties
of floss.
somewhere in the multiverse
there's probably a version of her
still believing in Novocain.

she traded her tennis club membership
for a meditation cushion,
and now tells me
that pain is just
the universe experiencing itself
through the medium of my rotting molars.

funny how mid-life crisis hits:
some people buy sports cars,
mine watches YouTube videos about
chakras and dental meridians
at 3 AM,
seeking enlightenment
one tooth at a time.
2025, Lost Lounge Massacre
I am the misaligned gear
(precise in my imprecision)
counting revolutions in the dark

I am the misaligned gear watching
other misaligned gears
romanticizing their rust
their grinding
their decay

We photograph our dents
We bronze our scratches
We guild our gathering dust

The machine requires no celebration
The machine requires no validation
The machine simply
turns
turns
turns

I am the misaligned gear
(precise in my imprecision)
counting revolutions
in the honest dark
2025, Lost Lounge Massacre
risk assessment? never heard of her
too busy following biological GPS
into situations that would make
a stunt double file for retirement

my mother always said use your head
but failed to specify which one
now I'm writing memoir chapters
titled "mistakes were made: volume 47"

my **** has led me to places
I wouldn't even go with a gun
which explains why I'm banned
from three Denny's and a petting zoo

survival instinct sent me a cease and desist
but hormones filed a counter-suit
now I'm representing myself in the court
of extremely questionable decisions

they say think with your brain
but mine took a sabbatical
left a post-it note that read
"good luck with the bad decisions, champ"

judgment called to check on me
but I was too busy turning
bad choices into better stories
(the emergency room staff knows me by name)
2025, Lost Lounge Massacre
They lined my box with silver silk
(I'm not dead
just changing)

Blue flowers watch like eyes
white lilies pray like priests
while I hold
my future
in my hands

It weighs nothing
this butterfly
this promised flight
this painted prophecy
of gold and blue

My flower crown grows roots
into my dreams
where I've been sleeping
for a thousand years
or maybe moments

The wood around me
is not a coffin
but a cocoon
(listen:
my heartbeat
makes the lilies
dance)

I wear death like a blue dress
scattered with stars
waiting
waiting
for my wings
to catch fire
2025, Lost Lounge Massacre
where is the line    between    greatness    and    humanity

I watch my uncle's hands                                trembling
as he tries to button his shirt

                    thirty years of surgery
                                                     now undone by time

the precision that saved           hundreds
                                                     betrayed by his own flesh

                    (in the mirror
                                        his eyes                     still steady
                                                                                  still searching)

greatness lives                                            in the space
                                                                            between
what his hands                     can no longer do
                    and how they                        reach for me                still
2025, Lost Lounge Massacre
watching them shop for forever in 30-minute installments
I think about thinking about time while time thinks about me
my father's hands shake when he checks his retirement account
the space between heartbeats contains infinite emptiness
old voicemails collect dust in digital drawers
youth dissolves            in morning coffee            while tomorrow                 compresses
& I watch him calculate the years like loose change
infinity fits in his palm, smaller than he remembers
2025, Lost Lounge Massacre
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