Sitting Indian style in the most overlooked room in the house for innovation on top of the washing machine as the towels transition into the spin cycle. Waiting for the blankets and bedsheets to dry that the dog ****** on the night before. Surrounded by posters of villainous comic book characters and not much else to look at other than cat clumps in the litter box while listening to the therapeutic avant-grade compositions of Don Van Vliet. Contemplating my abhorrent thoughts: over the years of struggling to crawl out of the quicksands of overdraft fees that swallow you whole, you begin to realize that the biggest bank robbers in the world are, indeed, the banks themselves and need to be completely eradicated from existence. How do parents raise their progeny and go through life without smoking **** or drinking beer? There are 26 letters in the alphabet and 171,476 words in the English language (48,156 of which, are obsolete) and an infinite combination of sentence structure fluctuating between a wide range of poor grammatical constructions and robust iambic pentameters that laureate writers, poets, novelists incarcerate themselves into their own ingenuity. So if Stokoe could write about cows and Banks could write about wasps then I should be able to write about honey badgers because honey badgers don't care if I write about forlorn laundry rooms. As I patiently wait, that dryer gave me 20 minutes alone with my thoughts and tranquility. Pandering in my immortality for my mind to manufacture the ammunition, my hand is the submachine gun and this poem is the blood splatter behind the wall of implementation and that's worth more to me than 1000 hours of overtime at work.