It's 10:00 at night and it's been at least a half hour since you've eaten something. You make your way to the kitchen, empty bowl in hand. You place the bowl with the ***** dishes and the world slows down as you turn to see the small container with your name on it...

I hate it.

You grab a glass of juice and stare at the container down. As if the black that so neatly stamps your name could stare back. You open the kid proof cap and pour out half its contents into your dominant hand.

Just to feel the weight of death in you dominant hand. "Take 2 twice daily." They said.

The half orange, half yellow capsules still in my palm. Feeling the plastic-like coating I feel like I could crush in 2 seconds flat.

Freeze.

Time stops.

This, is when the protagonist eats as many pills as her body will allow, when she gives in, when she dies. This movie is almost over...

Nobody else is awake, it's just you and your handful of pills.

No.

This movie goes on, the protagonist will live.

You-- are not built on a mountain of clichés and stereotypical archetypes.

You.
Are.
Here.

And still alive!

You pour the pills back into the container, with 4 still left in you hand. You take 2 but you still feel like it's stuck in your throat, so you eat something small to force it down. Even though these pills are supposed to be take on an empty stomach...

You get a glass of water, and set that aside with the 2 remaining pills for tomorrow morning.

Now go to sleep, make sure this protagonist lives to take the Hollywood medication tomorrow.

American Dream

Losing it one memory at a time,
how can I keep track of my friends all over the world,
how did America become a shell of it’s former Self,
what happened to the my American Dream?

I mean,
I have everything,
every,
thing,

been to every continent still not at all content,
really though mostly because I don’t know the reason,
for my discontentment I’m in contempt when I try and defend Consciousness,

because most people don’t want to hear it,
myself usually included,
but this day is different an exception to the rule,
in a moment when nothing is excluded,

all inclusive with no illusion to allude to,
only positive punctual true proof,
that ever experience we gain,
is another memorie we lose,

and I suppose that’s the trade off sort of,
lost my money got my freedom feeling strung out like Adolf,
in this Waking Dream that's beginning to feel like a Ponzi Scheme,
was gonna blow the whistle on the whole thing until I got paid off,

hey Madoff,
I just got laid off,
or rather laid on,
a beautiful bed by a beautiful mare that's more like a Stallion,

and that’s the difference,
between the Exceptions to the Rule,
and the “normal human beings”,
I’m between and Exception and the Rules,

I’m losing things but Perfection costs a lot of jewels,
so I'm donating all my Championship rings and useful tools,

got,

to pay the Piper,
there’s a toll at the bridge,
and a troll under the bridge,
and I'm tough not a Billy Goat Gruff with,

Red,
Hot Chili Peppers,
with Kiedis in Budapest,
got The Good Life high as Ini the Hotstepper,

whatever,
nothing seems normal,
shouldn’t be so formal,
let the record play let the drums roll,

in times of gargoyles and turmoil,
having a drink at the bar and it's purple,
at Gresham Palace Bar & Lounge,
up high and getting down with a surplus,

outstanding,
with Anthony in Budapest,
at the Four Seasons Hotel,
on the River Danube,

the River Danube,
brings up memories,
of Lovers and Poems,
and all of the things that continue to make Me,

me and my memories,
I remember you and yours too,
when we walked across that bridge,
above the River Danube...

I can’t stand Truth,
He can be such a fickle creature when He’s free,
and I’m losing memories it’s true I just hope I’m not also losing you,
because She can be such a fickle creature when She’s free,

losing,
one round at at time,
gaining,
on ground that was never mine,

and I know you don’t know the answers,
“But excuse me could you at least tell me the time?”,

to this you turn from your Enamore,
“Well since you asked I’ll tell you it’s almost One Two.”,
in other words what you said,
was it’s almost 12 which makes this the 11th Hour of Youth,
and I know we’re losing all of our memories,
but the only thing I fear losing is you,

Because I’m,
I’m,
I’m,
losing it,

Losing it one memory at a time,
how can I keep track of my friends all over the world,
how did America become a shell of it’s former Self,
what happened to the my American Dream?

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

“It’s 2017 those pants they just won’t do.”,
it’s 2017 undressed by a 16 year old,
hold on though it’s not ******,
even though yes she is truly beautiful,

we are in the dressing room of a mansion,
attending a costume party that's themeless,
and everyone here is dressed up,
dressing and ******* no salads just ballads and suits that are seamless,

and here I am in this Dream with,
this girl I don't even know and she's 16 with,
an attitude to match rude but just a bit,
and sure she's cute but there's no way I'd hit,

I am not attracted,
to Ms. Red Red,
in Love but not in Lust there’s a difference,
she's a friend's sister and that’s it,

Ms. Red Red,

ridged rounded scaled scarf,
I know that sounds hard to explain,
and I’m not attempting to try,
I’m just saying judging is a waste of time in the Wild.

Listen,
this life is so surreal,
that even when it’s viewed with vivid realizations,
it still doesn’t always even feel like it’s real at all,

all of this,
is,
as insane,
as we are,

are we,
anything other than Out of Control,
O.C. Baby I’m ready let’s roll already,
oh well who knows not me no one tells not even those For Whom the Bell Tolls,

are we,
anything other than Out of Control,
anything other than everything that’s so fckn Cliche,
can’t escape it not even if I tape it up and cast it away.

Fck you,
fck me,
fck this fckn Sociopathic Society,
so long I’m gone gonna join a Progressive Alternative Community.

Are you feelin’ me,
forget the cliches,
let go of every label you were ever given,
especially the labels you’ve given yourself,

well,
here we are again,
at the point in the poem,
where you ask what the point is of this poem,

well
there is none,
the Secret is there’s no Secret,
come on don’t be so passe and blasé,

cliche,
yeah I know,
you told me that already,
but there’s no going back to the Past we’re headed where we’re headed here we go.

2017,
welcome to the Future of Dreams,
and that sounds cool,
but I don’t even know what it means,

see,
sometimes things make sense,
even though,
they’re things we can’t comprehend,

oh well then,
I guess we’re in,
a whirlwind of real life pretend,
living in this Factory of Dreams Happily Ever After,

living H.E.A.,
true Deja Vu with No Rules,
then she shakes me from my daze as she says to me,
“Hey it’s 2017 those pants they just won’t do.”…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

12/1/17

Trading your morals for a supporting role,
Holding hands with upstart actresses while you hold the syringe
And swear this is all genuine.

This emptiness is the feeling of fame,
Waking naked on patios used as makeshift churches
Where the last of your secrets are sold for another half gallon of limelight.