Back to the scrawling pad
a cheap red notebook
wide ruled, with the perforated pages in it
in case I wanna punch one out easily
Those moleskin daze were measly
Thinking I'm creative and potent
but spending two years
to fill those tiny pages
Please, help me
reinvent the feel and manifest it
to real, accomplishment
Songs, verse, or vice grip words
to change a nation with
- to start a new nation with
Bokonon Bhikkhu
hurling Pikachus down from Mt. Olympus
land on the concrete with lemming splat
Get the metaphor?
I don't. Make your own up
I just an absurdest
A poor boy humming Queen
and writing rap atrocities
Nah, the rap "apocalypse"
minus all the apostrophes
Write so much anything anyone says
from now until oblivion
was just quoting me!

Aye, so I feel down
so  like any societally inept man throughout history
I resign to write self-assuring philosophy

Whole books of advice, not taken  
to scorn those who make my mistakes
I even quote my dead depressed brothers
to bestow a false valid weight

But more than anything at all,
I think Nietzsche was most right;
all us philosophers
who shrugged off all heaven or hope
retreat to our own arrogant plan
that we figured it all out

The job's rotten, still.
So many days past writing on pages like these.
Hoping for the best,
full of angst towards schooling and lowly positions.
Now school's over, and I left old jobs,
but the lowliness takes new form.

I left so many of yous there,
but don't look at me all forlorn.
I finished my share of the toil toll;
I went to school, I went into debt,
without even buying a home,
and most important of all,
I only climbed a rung.

I wish I could walk into that retail barn with unfake flair.
Show everyone I'm doing something I loved
and always talked about;
museum work, teaching, or traveling.
Even those "choices" are too general.
Getting over 12 bucks an hour's half the battle.
I'm only almost there, again.

Emily and I share a birthday
the odds of course which, are 1 in 365
I wonder if she would pay it any mind
if I were to relay that fact to her
in time traveling letters

We'd diss the Romantics
in our clinging to things old fashioned
But perhaps in some sort of
airy heaven mystic light
feather backed eunuchs deemed
our mutual yearly markers Holy

We share introversions too
So I know not to peak behind her cloudy veil
when it's my turn to hike the steps
of the colossal celestial mansion  
I'll just listen to see if you have a Boston accent
or send soaring aeroplanes, if you prefer
with fresh ink drops sliding off into sky

Before I go up there, I may ask my sister too
to burn all my poems, delete them also
Wondering when you request'd the same
did you not care 'bout words lost to air?

Can’t you understand my dual soul
the eternity verses fleeting?
Why a shy kid reads, makes art in his room
in between traumatizing social crises
Like 8 years old at the steakhouse chain
my parents made me order my own food
But when he’s 19 he drives all around drinking
with no time in between to sit and ponder existence
Now, I’m back in my room silent on my bed  
long returned from those shady social tasks most dangerous
The 5-day-a-week mood still pulsating through me
It’s the sitting and thinking
alone with my thoughts  - no distractions
I decay my inner being
by analyzing what I already felt once
O my, what could I do for
a peaceful mind growth stunt?
Perform and forget
the challenge of a refuse-to-settle adult

"The World's dying"
"But she'll **** us before we bleach the last blades of grass"
"I miss her tonight"
"Maybe she misses you, and if not, it was never right"
"I don't know whether to be sad for Her or for the World"

"Mourn both, and bask in the lonely rays of a Sun whose
a billion years old
and who'll seem young when you're dead, when she's got years left
Bask in the glory of formless gods
the ideology of 'who-knows-what'
Find a mindset where
even the Sun's death is trivial
amid cosmic events."

I stopped commenting on airy internet objects long ago
lest it be a needed praise of some starving artists’ work
or in response to a worded response of my own work

It’s just such a waste of time to tell a million view band
they “rock” or they “****”
All I will incite is defenders or refuters of my claim
who are just as petty as me

As an immature high schooler, that’s just what I wanted
The modern version of my dead grandfathers
with their white shirts, blue jeans, and duck *** hair
Driving from the city to hick school dances
just to pick fights

I once typed lines of **** talk on Elvis videos from the 1970s
just to see what would happen
- Nothing much
My grandfathers are dead and no one’s left to defend The King
I’m not so tough, but I felt scrappy then just the same

Now, with my lowly little job
my first world laptop and my glasses
Sipping coffee and mellowed out
I read some comments to see what people feel
about an article on my generation
How we’re more corporate than ever
bamboozled by a guise of fake uniqueness

Sure, I agree with the critique in the article
if you can even call it an article
People get paid for three lines of an opinion,
sometimes a link, and then the real entertainment's in the comments
Where can I get in line for this ******* job?
Not the commentors, their labor’s free
I mean the three lines guy, it sounds too easy

“Don’t ya get it yet, son”
My grandad chuckles
“His job’s just corralling all those comments,
inciting easy debate,
and getting advertising clicks”

He shook his head
went up through the roof
and his twenty-year-old jeans
ended in a wispy swirl
But I couldn't help noticing
they were name brand