We stand in line for a delayed plane airport stale oxygen recycled through our mouths. This is work.
“It’s gonna be fun to watch.”
We’re popcorn on the sidelines. Your sorrow is our television and soon we will fly to vegas. Because our white ***** make us bulletproof. Make us able to say things like “It’s gonna be fun to watch.” Instead of saying things like “I’m scared.” And “I can’t believe this is happening.”
The conversation continues. This is work.
“Those females sure do have a way about them don’t they?”
I wonder myself a coward. Does the upstart stand over the 60 year old? He’s a short man.
“Did you see that one?”
They’re talking about *****.
“Oh how could I miss it? He’s helping me find my wife, you know?”
What is the proper response to a sexist wink? I awkwardly smile. This is work.
Plane boards.
Takeoff.
Landing.
Slot machines in the airports.
Lights.
Smoke.
Decadence. I’ve never been. The neon hits me like stargazing. Walking alone seems to be more palpable to my tastes than company. There’s strippers on the sidewalk. One tries to spank me. When you walk back to your Paris themed hotel at 2 in the morning, everyone wants you to go to the *******. My hotel room is spacious. ******* is odd when you’re surrounded by ***.

Time rolls into the work event I’m in Vegas for, like limousines and unenthusiastic drummers strapped to the backs of moving advertisements. It’s a social event. I’m supposed to play nice with my customers. Make them happy so they give me more money. I’m paraphrasing.
One of my customers is talking to one of his customers. The guy is around 85. He notes on how young I look. Says that I can use this to my advantage with the ladies. Oh sorry. I’m paraphrasing again. What he actually said was:
“Never get married. When I was 40 I caught ***** like you wouldn’t believe. I’d find a 23 year old and toss her away for someone younger.”
Time rolls into overpriced drinks walking hand in hand with gambling and stories of conquest
Testosterone
Unrest
Like champions of our pants we are gladiators in the absence of romance. The game of one-up-man-ship, each story told and stacked like the cards slapping down on the tables around us.

“There was a 99.9% chance I was going to bang this chick. She like, had her hand on my leg. I had my arm around her. And I was the hero of the night because I had gotten a bachelorette party over.”
“Oh yeah, she’s hot.” “ Your wife is ******* standing right there, dude.”
“You know if things are wrong at the house cause my wife keeps me up aaaaalllll night. Talk talk talk talk.”
He moves his hands like lobster claws to mimic his wife’s mouth.  I feel my awkward smile crack across my face again. I pay $10 for a watered down drink. I talk to a girl who doesn’t want to talk to me. She leaves.
“You strike out or something?”
When you walk back to your Paris themed hotel at 4 in the morning, everyone wants to ******* in exchange for your wallet.

“Where are you going? You ever had black *****?”

My hotel room is spacious.
It’s odd to feel alone when company can be paid for. And as I lie naked in my bed I wonder what it would be like to have *** with a *******. I feel failure creeping at the floor, climbing the sheets that tell me I’m in the city of sin, so why am I not sinning?
Winning.
“You strike out or something?”

As men we are taught to be strong and that we don’t need anyone
Wolves
This is work
(but I must have missed the ******* lesson)

Because it seems I need someone. More than the soft cheek kiss of innocence lost. I want the feeling of seeing old people hold hands. The hard glare of the no judgement mirror. It’s like *** over *******, but there is silence in the nothing and if you listen closely you can hear the screaming drool between each ***** syllable. I’m tired of – **** it.
Let’s keep this a secret. Don’t want my man card revoked.
Have you ever felt like you could die and no one would give a ****?
A hangover morning pours overpriced coffee into our stale eyes. It seems the strength has waned
Tunes have changed
And the act is becoming hard to keep up. If you look at the corners of their eyes you can see they miss their wives and warn of men like themselves to their daughters.
But that doesn’t make for good stories, does it?
“I’m ready to leave”
“I can’t say I’m a fan of Vegas”
“I hate this town.”
Even wolves travel in packs and I wonder if some consider the proper response to a sexist wink to be an awkward story.
A company too exhausted, from dripping money and LED seduction to wonder if society knows the size of all our tiny penises.
“I’m tired of people assuming that just because I make a decent amount of money that I’m a republican.”
What?
“Oh I hate Trump. He’s a monster.”
We’re getting somewhere.
“You ever motorboated *******?”
Aaaaaaaaaaaand we’re back.

i woke this morning to the blues,
tired eyes can’t fathom this phantom news.

fire breathing out his window pane,
in my dream, thought i'd gone insane.

fictitious facts dawned on me,
my heart scrambled for her recipe.
  
                          So i turned it all off and ran away,
           the twenty four hour cycle versus my ten pound nemesis,
                               can't bear this brunt day after day,
            redemption songs need some bliss.

trust in me as trust in you,
find my flaws....... don't perfect them.
a little boy, i'll re-main true,
cease the fire A-gainst the wind.
casualties can't be subdued,
mind the dice........but don't crap out.
there's no ice that seems to dew,
extinguish flames, round your bout.

                                     Be on my side, I'll be on your side.
                                     Be on my side, I'll be on your side.
                                     Be on my side, I'll be on your side.
                                     Be on my side, I'll be on your side.

TRF                                              TENtwoTW­OthousandSEVENTEEN

Those who believe that
words cannot ****
have never read
the Second
Amendment,
or witnessed the blood it has spilled.

Was he demented?
Yes.
Was he troubled?
Most definitely.

He was everything they are calling him.
A gambling addict.
A retired accountant.
A mass murderer.

But he was something else
In addition to all these things.

He was a terrorist.

I know that word doesn't sit well with you
Unless the person it accuses doesn't look like you
Doesn't talk like you
Doesn't live
like
you.

But this man lived a life exactly like yours.
Up until that day
He was exactly
like
you.

Normal in every sense
Of your perception of "normal."

Up until that day
He was all of these words
Except a terrorist.

Now he has committed an act of terror
Yet no one in power has called him out
As a terrorist.

I find it odd that we avoid
Words that so perfectly describe one's actions
Simply because he doesn't fit the profile
You created in your head.

AT MANDALAY BAY ON THE VEGAS STRIP
AT A COUNTRY MUSIC CONCERT
FROM THE 32ND FLOOR A SHOOTER
OPENED FIRE ON THE CROWD


THE CONCERT GOERS RAN FOR COVER
THE BULLETS SOUNDED OUT LOUD


OUR WORLD HAS NOW BECOME VERY DANGEROUS
WITH OUR INNOCENCE TAKEN AWAY
THE VIOLENT ATTACKS NOW TAKING PLACE
HAVE BECOME OUR JUDGEMENT DAY



WHAT CAN WE DO TO STOP THIS EVIL
FOR INNOCENT LIVES ARE THE COST
BUT THESE LONE WOLFS STILL PERSIST
AND INNOCENT LIVES ARE LOST



THE FEAR AND TERROR THAT THEY SPREAD
WILL NEVER DESTROY OUR HEART
BECAUSE OUR PASSION FOR LOVE AND LIFE
OF OUR COMMUNITY WILL NEVER EVER PART  


OUR THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS ARE WITH
THE FAMILIES OF THIS EVIL ACT.

Another day another crisis
In this world that feels Christless
Full of lives that must be priceless
As they spill out on the concrete
New disaster, a new hurricane
Mass shooting, new Garner, new Freddie Grey
The patriots pledge and turn away
As their own cry, "I can't breathe."

This, our land of the free
Bound by our own iniquity
Where are the hands, where are the feet
Is the church not called to more?
In her mass modern transgression
God's command we made suggestion
That we run towards oppression
And unlock the captive' s door.

Will the Church choose to stand tall
For every  victim of the fall
Show binding love and light to all
And act upon our creed
Or will we simply hide behind
Our pristine pulpits and our pride 
While those for whom Christ Jesus died
We blindly leave to bleed?

|b.g.|

hashtags
do not bring back the dead.

they do not cause souls
to rise out of the ashes they lay to rest in.

hashtags

raise awareness for

loss
hurt
pain

and that ache in your chest you get
when you realize
that
nothing
is
the
same.

Because If im being honest,

making something a trending topic

is the only way

to make people

give
a
****.