Trophies for last place,
And a Holiday for every weekend.
A taste of this and that...
OF Italy and Ireland and Asia and Germany
and every township in the county,
and 3 collective Miles of
Portable Toilets,
Strategically Positioned
throughout each event.
cause there is going to be a Lot of ****...

Hooray for whatever we are celebrating this weekend.
Whichever one of the 30 different Woodstocks
Or week long Music Festivals
That exist only so
the Hippest of Hipsters
can congratulate each other
on how Indie they are.

Ya know, it's happy hour somewhere...
Why not party
All Day, Everyday?
Devalue the weekend
Like we have thanksgiving
And New Years.
A Five Kay For the Common Cold,
And We'll even give trophies for last place.
Cause we're all winners here.
and we're all hungry.
And What represents your heritage better than
Pizza or sauerkraut or General Tso's
And endless flowing barrels of refreshing, Ice cold, Domestically brewed and Nationally brand recognized Alcoholic Beverages?

IT's The Great Dumb Down, Charlie Brown!!!
A symptom of the Universe
If there ever was one.
Mass anesthesia to keep us all content
With our collective mediocrities,
our Forfeit Potential,
Our Day Job that doesn't pay very well,
But kind has benefits.
So we stay on.
In fear of nothing better.
It makes feel important.
Like Wheel of Fortune makes us feel smart.
(Wow, you can spell?!)...
Dwindling returns in a world of Beige and Pastels
And the Muted Grays of limestone concrete.
We Accept less and we Get less and we accept less and we Get less
And On And on and on,
till we hit that lowest common cultural denominator,
where your race is what food you eat,
And we all qualify for the special Olympics.

LET'S RAISE A TOAST
TO THE HERO OF ZEROS.
THE NOMINAL PHENOM.
THE LEGENDARY LOSER!
LAY WREATHS AT THE FEET
OF THE SLACKER KING,
AND ASK FOR NOTHING,
WHICH IS ALL HE CAN GIVE YOU.

NO SONG OR DANCE
OR MINIMAL EFFORT.
JUST AND ONLY
ABJECT FAILURE,
TO SPREAD LIKE BUTTER
OVER AN ARMY OF SLEEPWALKERS,
WHO TRUDGE THROUGH THE NIGHT
TO GET NOTHING DONE.

SAY A WORD FOR THE MAN
WITH TOO MUCH TIME ON HIS HANDS.
WHO ISN'T WORKING ON ANYTHING
SO THAT WE CAN HAVE EVERYTHING.

Your breath — a sugary cloud,
crossed quietly between us,
though received as a gust
As it entered my mouth

You slipped away, your image
faded as if in mist
so sudden, that kiss
We had before the bridge.

A final tear falls like
My soul escaping from my eyes.

The windows are closed.

A draft can still be felt from the edge of a mental bridge,
And I jumped.
My excuse: I go where the wind takes me.

---------
I've let you know what's its like,
Yet it seems like you don't want it to be true.
You lie to yourself.
Or maybe you just don't comprehend.

Running from the truth will get you nowhere.
---------

A final tear falls like
A memory finally understood.

I am a flower
on the broken bridge
and you are the hand
that places me in your hair,
behind your ear,
and you let me whisper
all the awful reasons
I was broken off
from my stem and
from my garden,
and you let me cry
about why I am a bad, bad,
bad, bad, flower.
And that is when you tell me
that no fingers deserved
to pluck me down to nothing.
I have not lost my stem,
but found a new one.
You are my stem.
And I am your flower.
Some days, I will be
your stem, and you
will be my flower.
And we can learn
to grow ourselves
our own new stems.
Because it's not about
the baggage,
it's about who helps you
unpack.