Hey kid, I woke up buzzing, here
In the future ruins of ancient America.
Staring, after the imperial sunrise,
Listening to Los Angeles on repeat.
Insistent and purple, only
Sediment left in the
Bottles of night.
This third-world way
Causes Third World War
So I'm drinking at a
Tavern on the End.
The bus goes by, and
"Baseball's the worst sport."
Sobriety sending me
Searching for smoke.
Rehash, re-up, and "read the ****** thing." My world-view,
(The memories I have are white and yellow.
Fogged, not angry, if even confused.
You'd call me, after finishing your nightly readings, to cry about the characters you'd loved, and castigate my inability to care.
Remember when you used "undermined" to describe the adaptation?
You meant that it was "assuming too much.")
"Brenda and Eddie," over here,
"Couldn't go back to the greasers" so they
Wound up at your family's tavern.
"You look like the fat kid,
On whom the popular girl was
Forced to settle."
Woman's found you out. Or
Are we, justly, doomed to be
Worn sole, soul-open, "so long,
Kid, I don't know you, but,
I can't help myself from
(My upbringing: out-maneuvering
"You've always been the caretaker, Flagstaff."
The bait's in your brain.
You've simply been
Overlooking the barkeep.
(Dear Diary, could I just die already?
The Price is Life, and purgatory's a game show.
Anger, the color of your mother.
Skin, the shade of yard-work.
Staring at road maps of Virginia, stoic.
Trying to divine the diners we'd die in.)
I dunno I'll let this speak for itself.