Some people die in Texas.
Some people die in Spain.
Some people die in their sleep.
Some people die in pain.
We were all in love with trauma.
We were all in love with the same
ideas we projected onto people
and disguised with their name.
I don't live in nine-eleven-land
and neither do my peers.
I've been monitored by other people's Gods
for twenty-two fucking years.
Coffee pots and cigarettes
stimulate my day
and keep the thoughts streaming,
that eventually fade away.
Some people die in Utah.
Some people die in Prague.
Some people never get married
or have the family dog.
We were all in love with status.
We were all in love with goals
that would make life poignant
and make ourselves whole.
I don't subscribe to the thought
that my thoughts necessarily matter.
If life is a horror movie,
then I'm the fake blood splatter.
Bible thumps and dead eyes,
are all part of my design,
and how I live and where I die
means to separate my mind.