who am i to say if the mozzer's lost touch?
what does my rough draft have
that is missing from his manuscript?
nothing. so, i'll sit down here
before the microphone and say,
all this time, i've yet to come to terms with certain words
for instance, design, and all of its nuance
how do i design in true
when i am a shard of
azure experience in the
endlessness of midnight blue?
all this time, i've yet to call my good form to return
for instance, my designs, and all the nuances --
the water drains, shallow now,
from my composition,
as if i'm the desert, when once,
i was my own oasis.
reflection is a given. still,
how can i reflect this ill
in good faith, when the
poisonous sick saw my
leg up ascend into ruins?
take a poor, fat, spiced chocolate kid
from its welfare house
put it in a program with rich kids,
tell it it can be just like that,
if it learns critical thinking,
logical reasoning, communication,
and problem solving.
[falls asleep in a dumpster]
no one accounted for the rest of the hillbilly family.
school officials build a false sense of equitable hope,
and wear their badges with a flair of pride.
guess what i learned at school today!
not now, hon, we're watching dr. phil.
then, it's my 600lb life.
then judge judy.
then house hunters.
then the price is right.
this ******* thing came to this:
two brains, sever and split.
two pigs, top of the town,
made marquee marked on the ground!
i'm smothered, but
the fourth wall's
done getting scraped!
version one point one was nothing new,
these scrapes make room for version one point two.
die 2 try?
try n Try
try 2 die
that feel when you crawl out of your dumpster, and see your **** neighbor in a bikini at the community cesspool
for all my preparation
this project begins to slip away
what if my great fantasy
hinges on a banal happiness?
the ink of ballpoint pen
takes me as far as sorrow's edges
i confess best to myself
wetness skin to skin, with sweat's sweet and
sour accompaniment is as close to happiness
as i can steer this sinking ship
as of late there's nothing left
of the sweat to cleanse my dead palate
n if you have a clue
pork who watches you move
will be taking notes
this ***** knows how it goes
n if you have a plan
pork who watches you move
will catch it, understand
this ***** is stealing souls
keep it under the knife
surgeon and patient
ship and astronaut
i know well the fear as it manifests
in the dampness come night
dollar bills burn hot in pocket
the reddened skin of my inner thighs
fights to fray the cloth, but i
i'm better off sleeping in my pants
and my shoes, as to evade
then this thing clicks and the misfit
cuts come to fall into plan
by design, without fail, buy and sell
then there's me, this thing replete
with confidence in its destruction
by its hand, or on demand, its a
matter of course lightbulb!
clearly, the days slip past
i nearly lasted, keeping track
tags and descriptions, each one placed
as if a benefit falls upon the lot
for drawing connective lines
god's dead, god's not dead,
i'm god, the god of sand,
ephemera at my command
but what's it mean? these things
take time, but not seriously, because
the sun hits the wax on a paper cup
and it blinds us from the bushes
and so low, can't care
so low, lone, done dead
can't care for upsides
but asides and sideways