The only thing I like
about nights like this
is that it gets so dark
and the skies are so clear
that they look like
the little boy who trapped us all here
decided to have mercy
and pin-***** little tiny airholes
in the lid of our mason jar

but there aren’t enough
to make a difference

Her lit cigarette burns
so brightly from the porch
against the darkness
it reminds me of a lighthouse
...or a bug zapper.

I don’t see how anyone
can smoke at a time like this
when the air is so heavy
it’s like breathing cement.

The campfire is whispering
something about...memories?
I can't hear it very well
and I don't speak it's language.

The fireflies are out tonight.
I watch the children chasing them
they blink in and out of existence
like little teleporting fairies -
Proof that the little boy who trapped us all here
has not yet succeeded
in snuffing out all of the magic.

One child is sitting away from the group.
swinging alone
carving imperfect circles
with her toes
into the dirt below.
She is staring up at the stars
she looks - concerned.
I cannot help but
wonder what she's thinking.

The campfire is dying.
I watch it gasp for air a few last times
before putting it out of it's misery.

Somewhere out there, there is someone
who had a Creative Writing class in college
with E.L. James.

He remembers her
as that annoying sheltered Mormon girl in class
always telling people about how great a writer she was
and reciting her bad poetry
to anyone who pretended to listen.

He remembers fondly
the time she sobbed to her friends
because of the D she got on her final project
and the time the professor told her:
"Sometimes passion just isn't enough.
You've got to have talent too."

He knew that if he never made it as a writer
at least he could take solace in the fact that
wasn't as bad as that Erika chick.

After college, he cried weekly
over his mountain of rejected manuscripts
and eventually abandoned the pursuit of his art altogether
in favor of work that pays the bills.

Years later,
he comes home from work
at his 9-12 factory job
he finally, reluctantly, gives in to his wife's demands
to take up ******* in the bedroom -

- and Mid-****** she calls him Christian Grey

So, what I'm saying is this:
Somewhere out there, there is someone
who killed their loving wife in sudden rage -
because of poorly written Twilight fanfiction.

The only thing
that can be heard for miles
is the screeching of the metal ropes
of the playground swing

and the laughter of the little boy
whose feet are just barely long enough
to push the ground away

"I saw you eyeing this"
       I wasn't.
"It's my writing journal. I'm a poet, In case you were wondering"
       I wasn't.
"I don't know if I'm any good. I mean, people say I am"
       Probably not.
Finally, I handed him the question he was fishing for:
       "So what do you write?"
"Oh, well, I did recently complete a poem
 comparing life to a game of chess"
        He had the smuggest most punchable face ever.

                      ...seriously?
You and every other 8th grader who got that prompt in Language Arts.
                        *******.
                                           Is what I should have said to him.

I don't know why he ****** me off so much
Maybe because he reminded me of a younger version of myself
       Always pushing my writing in people's faces
       demanding they have an opinion on it.
Hell, I still do that from time to time.
       Who was I to judge this poor guy?
                 but I did.

After a few years, I forgot about him entirely.
I couldn't recall his face even at gunpoint,
and all that is left in my memory of him
       is that stupid comment about life and chess...
                                         Chess takes strategy, and skill.

If you're gonna compare life to a board game,
It's more like chutes and ladders,
         pure chance
Like Battleship,
         dumb luck
Like Solitaire,
         all too often you're playing with yourself.
But when you aren't it's Charades,
         you're always trying to guess
         What the other really means
         and it's always simpler than we're making it.
It's Clue
         In that no one has all the pieces to the puzzles
         But if we work together,
         maybe we can solve the mysteries.
Scrabble
         It's a bag of incoherent consonants and vowels
        Having no inherent purpose,
        Developing all meaning through your design.

And yes, a little like Chess,
          In that I never learned how to play it.

Autopoiesis.
Autocorrect: Autopsies?
Such a pessimist.

My ship
drifts swiftly,
slowly sifting
shifting,
lifting,
split ting,
sprouting wings,
and finally
flying

free.

I don't know if you remember me
I was on the jury two weeks ago
When you were being tried.

Our eyes met for a moment
As your lawyer went on and on about
Crimes of Passion.
You smiled at me.
and bit your lower lip,
all ****-like - like those women in the movies.
I smiled back.

I can't get you out of my head.
All I keep thinking is -
do you have to be married to get conjugal visits?

My first memory is of dying.
I felt like I'd lived a full life
And now I was gladly fading away.
My first last words were
"Tell Elizabeth I love her"
I don't remember knowing Elizabeth.
I love her though, or at least I did in that moment.

The next thing I recall is being twelve
Sitting on the toilet in the girls' room,
thinking to myself:
"It looks like there was a war in my ******"
I sat in there by myself until the last bell
Too embarrassed to face the classroom of sharks
With their hungry eyes fixed on me - bleeding in the water.

Which makes me think of another first -
I was eighteen, never smoked **** or even drank ***** before.
"Son, there's a time and place for everything - and that's college"
my dad always said. So I took his advice.
I ate like 3 of those mushrooms.
I saw music, like music notes, coming out out the stereo.
They tasted like stars - like longing and hope.

Like how felt outside of that reststop in North Dakota.
When I ran away from the boarding school with Sofia.
We sat there on that bench in the rain.
Hand in hand - a truest love we would let no adult tell us wasn't real.
We were whole in that moment.
A wholeness I'd never know again.
One time, after going down on me
She told me I tasted like music.
I laughed out loud
I didn't know why.

She broke my heart.
I was a business tycoon,
A man of great wealth
I could have anyone I wanted,
but not her.  
She didn't know what she wanted. She needed guidance.
So I found her, and we both got what we really wanted.
I always get what I want...
...I don't like this memory.

I was one hundred and thirty seven
Days sober.
When I got the news.
My only daughter -
Barely a woman.
My fragile little doll -
Was ripped to pieces  by monsters.
No reason.
Just evil being evil
No one can deny who they really are for too long.
Some people are serial killers,
Some are heroes,  
Some are alcoholics.

I don't remember much about that night.
I woke up the next day,
and I was 21 - officially.
I'd probably have felt better if I wasn't so hungover.

I'd puked in the store's bathroom.
My nerves were shot.
My body was shaking.
I couldn't believe what just happened
- this was just a part time job to pay off student loans.
This Is not the **** I signed up for-
The guy came in - skimask and all, like out of a ******* movie -
His gun pointed directly at my head.
demanding all of the money in the register.
I reached for the panic button, all subtle like they taught us in that half hour seminar...

"You press threat button kid, you die today - now give me the money and this will all be over soon -"
I recall saying in the most macho voice I could muster.
I didn't want to shoot her. Hell, she looked cute, I'd rather date her.
But that would be another life.
One I can't afford to ponder.
This was the reality.
I had to do this -
She had what I wanted - what I needed.
It's dog eat dog out here.

"Good girl"
Shadow dropped the bone at my feet.
I picked it up and tossed it back into the endless grass
As it spun like boomerang in the air -
For some reason, couldn't tell you why,  I thought about Frankenstein's Monster.

Some parts are really fuzzy,
I hold it close to me - the fuzzy parts against my skin.
It's a quilt blanket, stitched together of pieces and parts of found cloth.
My father made it for me.
My very last first birthday gift.
I cocoon myself in it like a womb.

I left you
scrambled on the wall
naked for all to see.

I called it art
poetry
even, honesty.

but it was only brutality
only ill-informed and unformed mess of ideology
only the reaction of little boy
to a trainwreck.

I won't say the word regret,
because I don't
I won't say the word sorry
because I'm not.

I will say that with age comes perspective  
and with perspective
comes introspection and --

well, we've all had too much of that today.

Once a **** is given, one can not get it back.

I heard somewhere recently
that people are the most creative
at the times they think
that they are utterly useless:
like in the morning before getting coffee
or while surrounded by ******* co-workers who won't shut up about their stupid gun collection
       (cause seriously, no one cares about how big your **** isn't, Phil.)

The amount of ***** anyone can give in a day varies based of many factors - the amount of sleep someone has the night before or if they ate breakfast that morning, for example, can determine how many ***** a person has to spare.

It is in that spirit - despite my better judgement -
I am writing to you at four AM.
Sitting in my underwear,
Forcing my eyes to stay open, licking my dust-dry lips.
and realizing that I forgot to brush my teeth -
I'm writing that tid-bit that down
in hopes it will embarrass me into making a proper oral hygiene choice
sometime in between when I finish writing this and before I pass out from exhaustion.

If someone deems a person or a situation not worth their emotional effort, they can choose to not give a ****, despite having ***** they can give.

Today at work:
Everyone kept asking me if I was alright
I told them that I think so -
because, that's the truth.
But also because it's easier to say than
"I don't want to be here, and your face annoys me"

A **** is approximately two damns. A **** is two *****, and a **** is two rat's *****.

I don't have much to say in this piece
So I'm hoping that self-deprecation
and artsy-fartsy stream of consciousness
still passes for decent poetry these days.

Taking a **** is morally objectionable.

The doctors told me I should abort.
But my mom convinced me this was for the best  

I told them I wanted a closed adoption.
They said that I'd never see you again.
I was okay with that.
It made things easier.

You have to know,
I never wanted any of this,
I never thought I'd be one to abandon my only child
That's monstrous.
Please believe me,
I am not a monster.

But he was.

Your eyes are the same.
Dark and hard...
but sort of empty too.

Your smile
is soft and gentle - like his.
A practiced liar's smile.

Your hands,
they look just like the ones he wrapped around my mouth and neck,
long and thin, but surprisingly strong.

Your voice -
Identical to the one that whispered
"no one will believe you"
into my ear that night.

You even kind of smell like him.

I don't know what you expected to get out of this:
Money?
An apology?
Closure?
Love?
I can't give you any of those things.

I will tell you this:
I could have spared you this moment,
And not doing so, is my biggest regret.

It was found today
An old leather-bound journal
All its pages – blank

It was found today
The body of a woman
Killed softly by life.

It was found today
A leaf, crumbling the sun
Scattered by the wind.

I envy those birds
They have not yet trapped themselves
In the cage of time.

Follow the fireflies
Eager to show you something-
A stillborn bunny

The sun strikes my eyes
    Violent as a sword
This holy morning

I'm lifted.
Floating to the place where I'm just high enough off of the ground to feel the boundless freedom
and just low enough that coming down won't hurt me a bit.
I'm seven again.
On the playground where me and my schoolyard buddies used to play tag.
I would have never imagined in my youth that two of those kids would be gone
by my senior year of high school.
None of that matters now.
Randy is seven too, and he doesn't even know what alcohol is yet.
Sarah is six again, and has yet to know that your heart can be broken.
Dan is "it", and all the girls are running from him.
but this was a time before the needle and before the germ.
Back than they ran from him because he was "it",
now they run from him because they don't wanna catch "it".
No one would have guessed it,
That this was our fate.
That we would ever grow older.
That we would ever grow up.
That five students of our graduating class would be mothers.
That two of my best friends would be dead.
None of that matters now,
I'm seven again.
We're playing tag.
The swingset is a safe zone.
No one can touch me here.

If experience has taught me anything (an unlikely assumption)
it is that if a woman ever tells you
-straight up-
that she’s a *****
she is not lying.
this advice is not at all useful.
at least; it hasn’t been for me
since every single time it happens
I insist that she’s just got low self esteem
or she’s  joking
or she’s just had one of those days.
But a few months to a year later,
I find myself on the blindside of the road
bags barely packed
rushed out with the trash
in shock and agreement.
But see,
at least for me,
It’s hard to believe someone
when you’re in love -
which is not unlike losing your glasses
and sort of seeing blurs of people
not nearly as clear as you would with sober eyes.
I don’t expect anyone to heed my warning
I believe it even less than you do
to be honest.
I’m just a little drunk
and in a funk
and thinking way too much,
as I’m prone to do from time to time
in bars like this.
So, don’t pay me any mind
or do
I don’t care, really
how’d we get on this topic, anyway?

Sometimes I look through snapshots of my past lives.
The edges of each photograph tinged yellow by time.
I barely recognize myself.
A stranger with my blue eyes.

There's no use in wondering what he'd think of me today.
He will never have to face my decisions.
He will never stand trial for them.
I couldn't care less what he thinks.
He's long since died.
Replaced by several incarnations who also have passed
on the road to becoming me.

These relics, tokens of breath taken,
remind me to keep in mind the person I will become.

What will I happen across in an attic box
someday, lifetimes from now?
Will what I leave for the future me
be enough to bridge the gap?
Will he remember me?
Or will I be a faint ghost in the back of his mind?

I guess only he can answer those questions,
and when I become him, I will.

Until then,
I linger too long on an old picture of myself -
This boy, he has promise.
I think he's going somewhere.

Remember that chick
who pulled her hair back in a ponytail
had glasses
and wore ripped jeans
that she Sharpied murals on
out of boredom?

You’d see her in class sometimes
mumbling to herself
and doodling
while the teacher droned on
about the scientific method.

She always made you curious
but you could never get close enough
to hear what she was saying
or see what she was writing.

She promised herself that one day
she’d keep a diary
to keep track of the truth
but every time she tried
it turned into a collection of
half-thought-poems
and half-drawings of half-things
half-human and half-something else.

Never autobiographical
never the truth.

She seemed like the kind of girl
who is a self proclaimed vegan
scrawny little thing
with ex-hippie parents
like if you ever talked to her
she would be all in for face
about “going green man.”

So she took you by surprise
when she beat the fattest kid in the class
at that hot-dog eating contest
that chubby ******* didn’t stand a chance.

She thinks
the truth is just the lie
that you tell yourself the most often.

People called her “book-smart”
because she wore glasses
and was bad at math.
But she wasn’t really,
she was people-smart
in the way a scientist is rat-smart.

She’d sit on the swings at recess
and watch people
her eyes were concerned
like there was something they had
that she lacked.

Her locker was always empty
she took everything home
every night
she left
no residue
no aftermath
no memory behind.

She dreamed of living out of her car
and opening a coffeeshop
and being free.

She knew she was destined
to prove there was no such thing as destiny.
That we make our own reality.

And all of this you found
endearing and admirable.

Remember her?

…of course you wouldn’t.

You would have her more like this:

That weird nerd who doesn’t talk to anyone.
has long hair and draws on his pants,
is awkward in every conceivable way
- and possibly gay.

He spends all day in his notebook,
writing who-knows-what.
Who cares -

- about what his dreams were?
He was just another background character in your life.

There was one time you cheered him on,
at the hot-dog eating contest.
The only time you ever touched his hand
was to give him a high five for that.

You always pitted him.
silently.
Never out loud.

She was there.
Hiding behind his eyes.
And she loved you.
As much as one could love someone in seventh grade.

But you never loved her.
You couldn’t have.

She didn’t even know she existed yet.

I dreamt I was visiting Heaven

There was a riot going on.
The entire city in an uproar.
Glass shattered all over the Golden streets.
Children, hiding under their mother's wings.

Nobody knew where God was.

In the middle of the city,
In an otherwise empty park
stood a large monument
to the Son and his chariot.

It was there,
at the feet of our savior,
I watched this angel
set their wings on fire.

The sign by their feet
in crudely written black marker, read:

“In solidarity with my brothers:
Who will burn forever for sins
I didn't have the freedom to commit.”

O death, I see you
walking slowly to my door
humming a sweet song

In a sharp night light
shaking away a long sleep
the moonflower wakes

Wise words once whispered:
Only a **** eats and drinks
Granny's flesh and blood

Found on the beach this morning
by New Floridian tribesman
were sea-softened pieces
of the torch
the stone lady held
ages ago
before we found out
that freedom was just as imaginary
as any other silly idea we've ever had.

They propped them up
against what was left of the old Mouse-Man monument
their edges touching in a way
so that they may together provide shade
to any passing child of the wasteland.

The last story ever to be told
was whispered to an infant
born in an unlucky time
just moments before the end
of everything we once thought to be Everything.

Almost a biblical scene:
The ash-snow covered the ground outside,
and a baby lay in a makeshift manger.

The child, understanding nothing of the plot,
was only comforted by the raspy voice
and rough, cracked hands
of a kind old stranger.

A lance of morning light
beamed on them from a small hole
in the rusted ceiling.

He spoke just loud enough
to drown out the distant cries
of those who burned alive
for the sins of greedy men.

Summer death lingers
in the air, corpse leaves fall - still
soon to be buried

How lonely it is
walking toward the sunset
my cell phone is dead

On cement pillows
resting for revolution
nearby, the grass grows

I killed Jehovah.
Now slay your Jabberwocky
only then - true peace.

There is always a breeze here
and there’s a white gazebo
in the shade of the house
it is all as perfect
as it would appear
to Norman Rockwell
In the back, there’s a flowerbed
the names of the flowers, I don’t recall
and perhaps
never knew;
but the names on the headstones that sleep there
I’ve always known
and I will remember them
until my name is worked into a rock as well
Over here used to be
nothing,
but now there is
a taller than tall apple tree
as old as I am
and twice as wise
I come here sometimes when
life gets too congested and I
need to breathe
or sometimes just when
I have nothing else to do
but think and write about things
I don’t know

I sit back in the gazebo
pretending to admire the comforting cornfield’s endlessness
like the simple man I sometimes wish I was
I imagine I believe in God
or at least, Heaven
and pretend to feel them looking down at me
I smile at myself
on their behalf
I think about all the years
my grandpa spent building that house
and the stories he told me, my father,
about the kind of mother she was
and I think it would make them happy
to know that someone hasn’t forgotten
about the place that,
for some reason, I can’t quite figure out,
always has this breeze

"Humpty Dumpty was a metaphor, I think."
"What?"
"For the human psyche."
This man's skin was inhumanly pale and dusty.
He looked sick -
like he was carrying something heavy no one else could see.
"Think about it. An egg, beautiful in it's frailty."
"Teetering on a wall, ever in danger of the fall that will break him."
His eyes were lost in the thought. Cloudy.
Everything about this man made my bones want to run away

"and all the king's horses..."
He whispered. A calmness that stabbed like an icepick.
"and all the king's horses..."

I believe we met in heaven
or was it hell?

I was too drunk.
You, soft spoken and understanding,
didn't know me at all.
Yet helped me to my feet
and asked what I was doing
in the park
this late
on a Tuesday.
I told you that I was bad at lying,
then proceeded to ***** on your shoes.

I didn't know then that I'd marry you someday.

I am a mosquito on your holy-massive windshield.
You knock the air from my lungs and surround me in enough of it to crush my body.
It's all bigger than me,
all bigger than my eyes can see,
or my hands can hold.
All bigger than John mayor's body gives him credit for.

I explode my **** mixing with the blood of millions from which i drank, and you see it like a rorschach test and the results are in, you're the holy mary ******* what killed by brother, and all my brothers, and our souls are in your brain screaming ****** and pain

All bigger than all I know the universe to be, you are lightyears ahead of my understanding,
but nonetheless I strive to get passed your windshield.
I see what you have inside there and I want it.
I want to be with you there. Crushing the souls of bugs like me.
Wiping them from the glass, and not thinking twice.
But since I can't, I'll make sure to bleed for you,
so much that I leave a good smear that will take your wiper blades at least four swipes to get me off.
I'll make sure you remember me.

is that Vera Hall on your stereo, singing out from beyond the grave, singing Death Have Mercy? Vera Hall from beyond the grave hatin' on John Mayer. Vera Hall the old sooth sayer. Vera Hall with one last prayer,
Oh Death, have mercy.
Vera Hall, in a dream but lucid.
Oh Death, you're out of wiper fluid.

Beauty deep like
Mother Earth's
takes more than seven days

I don't think you exist
there, it's been said out loud
please don't hate me

I envy nature
that has not yet trapped itself
in the cage of time

Blues for the bluejeans
with holes that are worn
but not earned

Mist in the morning air
collects heavy on the neck
of a blade of grass

Thumbing through yellowed
crumbling pages of schoolbooks
meeting ghosts in the margins

coffee spitting.
clicking.
fingertips stumbling ever so awkwardly
across the keyboard.
slightly stale leftover love.
making memories
drift in from the other  room.
secondhand bassline
like an artificial pulse.
incomprehensible morning chatter
rising from the carpet
tickling the bare feet.
neutral silence
running noticeably
underneath it all.
like an omen
or a prayer.
a lost soul’s secret. desire
untold, and thus forgotten

or maybe just silence.
and nothing more

Silver-bearded ex-hippie
endless pony-tail
fedora and wise eyes.
I wonder if he writes
like Ginsberg -
or at all.
I decide that he should.
He has stories to tell, this man.
He looks like a professor I had one semester
a lifetime ago.

She lied to the nice man
told him
I'm fine
and kept walking
he was swallowed seconds later by her insecurities
never to be seen again.

Sitting a corner booth by herself,
sipping on a Long Island Iced Tea
and reading Keats.
Hands down, she's the most
captivating person in this bar.

Fingertips calloused, and hands nicked and scraped
like she'd been in a fight with experience
and went down swinging.
Eased into her seat like slipping naked into a hot bath.
Smiled with all her teeth
like no one was looking.

Left her phone at home,
in pieces on the kitchen floor.
Tonight was the night she was going to forget all about the custody battle
the bill collectors
the late night fights about who was right
and who was left in the room with all this shattered glass to clean  up
the long sobbing nights with her pillow and her secret shame
the regret for time poorly spent looking for love in bars and cold blue eyes
the years that separated her from twenty-two –  when she was young and delusionally happy.

With her body language, she unknowingly spoke to me:
Tonight, I came to drink and dance.
Don't bother me with pick up lines.
Pick up artists, go find another canvas.
Mine's been painted over plenty.
I don't have the time to save anymore white knights from their mother's ***.
That fairytale story always ends in Shakespearean tragedy.
Plus, the **** horse leaves scuff marks on the dance floor.

I take one last sip
and slip the bartender an extra twenty-
tonight the nightingale drinks for free.

I leave before she can thank me.

The sensitive arch of her soul
tickles with longing
for reunion with fresh cut Spring grass

The dark and humid trappings of unnatural comfort,
man-made warmth for a bitter season,
makes her free-sprinting spirit claustrophobic

And although she can see the gleaming snow for miles
and can appreciate the appeal of a nice blanket
She hates shoes,
how heavy they can become on long walks -
a soggy burden in the name of convenience

She sees the grass peaking out form under it's Winter covers
and her Nike wings twitch with anticipation
for a sweet chance to shed superfluous layers

Until then
She blues dances in the dark
looking for a faint spark
and in her dreams, she runs
through wild fires

Thumbs
anxiously poised
slightly above the qwerty
like little frustrated court stenographers
with other places they’d rather be.

Head
full with more memory than words
worlds away
dancing naturally
in the synchronized but broken
rhythm they used to call love
in a time before they took away its name
and comforting rules.

With broken glasses,
thumbs stumble
frameless
into awkward silence.

Nerves
trembling,
close the phone.

I was immortal once,
believe me, you, I was
invincible.
And back when I was immortal
I used and play hopscotch on the clouds
high above New York City Traffic
and laugh every time I caught myself
on the edge.

I used to play hide and seek
with the truth

I'd hide in the bedroom closet
of this muse
and be there when
she’d come home after a long day's inspiration.
I’d watch her undress
searching her naked self in the mirror
like something was missing
but she never did find it.
I think she knew I was there
yeah, she knew.

I used to race with shooting stars
I won once
but I cheated
so it doesn’t count.

I used to dance with The Moon all night
she moved my waters
and I took her virginity.
Ours was a love of necessity.

I kissed The Sun.
She blushed
and The Moon got jealous.

Then I met God,
the most beautiful of all my conquests.
I knew no one else would quite match up to her.
She and I made man together.
It was parenthood that tore us apart.

Yeah, I was immortal once
but now,  
now I’m just waiting to die
like everybody else.

Sometimes I muse about the strangers in my life.
I like to pretend that some of them have telepathy like radio
and when they see me as they always do,
in the commons at the school,
jogging past me on the sidewalk,
or in the polite but awkward silence of the elevator,
I wonder if I intrude upon their fuzzy bubble of mid-morning consciousness.  
If my inappropriate thoughts make their way through the static of theirs.

I almost want to apologize to the woman who jogged passed me this morning.
She didn’t need to know that I scratched my nuts
sniffed my hand,
and the scent of that ball-sweat brought me back a time when the room reeked of sin,
in the afterglow of rough ***, and that it made me miss
Her.

And that classmate didn’t need to know
that I secretly hoped the girl
that they keep talking about on the news would just show up dead,
so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.
Or the guy I just shared the mandatory hellos with,
if only he knew that just before we talked I was pondering the best way to induce mass hysteria
- a plan involving a *** of one dollar bills and LSD -
not that I’d ever actually put it into action.
Chaos is just fun to think about sometimes, I think.

And now I’m thinking of how weird it would be,
if one of these people tuned in right now and overheard me musing about them.
Woah…that’s so meta.

I gotta write this **** down.

Snake-boy’s arrival
has ****** everything up.

People are in a frenzy
some curious to see how their personalities
are going to dramatically change.
Some just curious to see what the tabloids will say about them now.

Others are forming an angry mob
in defense of nostalgia.
They haven’t been this ******* since
Pluto stopped being a planet.

These are the great injustices people get riled up about.
Nothing is more important to man
than the talk of gods and destiny.

We will **** for the things we cannot touch.
It’s in our worse nature
to look up at the sky and make meaning from the emptiness.
Just as it is in our worse nature to fight about what that meaning is.

So, here we are,
In midst of the ever changing chaos of the universe,
which far more interesting than what they may have to say
about our terribly insignificant lives,
caught up in our own imaginations.

Like children,
we make up our own games
and we don’t like it
when other kids change the rules.

Despite the fact that other children are starving
and other children are sleeping and dying in the cold
and real things,
horrible things, tragic little things
still happen.

We don’t think about them nearly as much.
They aren’t intangible gods, or destiny
yet, they affect the us more
and they are not
beyond our reach.