Stepping out of bed listening to
Sun Araw yelp like a cat on marijuana
and wondering if we're all the spawn
of some great singular being.

Lying in your work clothes,
lying to yourself about showing up late
working towards that infinite nothing,
wondering why people expect dreams
out of people, instead of just
give some mercy to the suffering.

Talking about age makes me want to die young.

It's pink and orange and soon it's blue,
but it's still the loveliest most childish
painting the sun has ever spread out
for your eyes to see.

Put on work boots for a job that'd
be just fine with sneakers.
Get your ducks in a row,
and let the cute girls with
big eyes and colored hair
shoot them down
one by one
by one.