**** angles.
This house has got plenty of **** angles. Tom knows, I don't. Tom knows more about that kinda stuff because that's Tom's forte.
Old Cochrane.

I'm not sure what disabilities he suffers from, but to be honest it doesn't seem much like he suffers. He's just a dude with a loud set of brains fixated on a very Cochrane world, sort of like Plato I guess, beard and everything, looking at the angles and strange asymmetric dots with a feeling that there’s some preternatural 'other world' where all of Cochrane's expectations are met and this house as well as the world would do ******* well to abide by it if it knows what's good.

Old Cochrane loves Superman Returns. I once saw him watch Superman Returns 3 times in one sitting, to the point that it became Superman Returns Returns Returns and for Chrissake if Metropolis were real I doubt his ethics would be much appreciated anymore but hey, who am I to say? I'm no Clark Kent but I'm sure Cochrane thinks he is, and if he's damnwell Plato he can damnwell be Clark Kent just as well as the next Kryptonian sucker to crash-land on planet Earth, and it's damnwell possible Cochrane is from Krypton for all I know, he's got some miraculous will-power and push, that's for **** sure.

He's always yelling, 'ober-der! Ober-der!' like he's some sad German screaming at the **** Poles across the Oder-Neisse line as if it were there **** fault. It's either that or Krypton is ober-der and he just wants to go home, or maybe his face gets red because he knows damnwell where Lex Luthor is hiding and he just wants our ******* help finding him.

I think Old Cochrane has a crush on Kevin Spacey.

I wouldn't know, but I'm making that assumption *** Cochrane looks pretty spacey sometimes.
Okay, that was just a bad joke. I'm not too good at jokes.

I have two coworkers named Ryan. To avoid any confusion we all just call them by their last names, Soprovich and Danyluk, but most of the time we just call Soprovich Ryan Sop, and I'm not sure if he much appreciates the nickname. Our bosses name is Pam Wadden and in response to her calling him Ryan Sop he asked if he could call her Pam ***.
Pam didn't hear that of course, but I heard it. And it was at that moment I made the judgement that old Ryan Sop is good at jokes.

Anyways to slide back to my point, once I was working with both Danyluk and Soprovich and as I was leaving, to shave a few seconds before my bus, I said, 'Bye.. Ryan..s'
that made them both laugh a little so I quickly made the judgement that I'm sometimes good at jokes but I never mean to be which is kinda Zen I suppose. Buddhist effortless effort or whatever they damnwell call it.

I've always been somewhat of an intellect, but not usually of my own freewill. I read a lot, but I sort of read like a ****** addict shoots-up.. just one more line, just one more paragraph.. and before I know it I've finished a book that kinda scared me but good ******* the high was fine.

I guess it's not really like that at all, but I like to think of it like that sometimes, it kind of excites my stomach in the good way, makes me feel like some ******* rebel reading **** the government has probably already burned or recycled into the paper bags I shop with at Safeway..
shopping at Safeway.. livin' life the Safe Way.. gatherin all the grosh-rees, yeah, you ****** know me
I forgot to mention I'm somewhat of a part-time rapper and 40% of the time I have rap lyrics pulsing through my head as my own inner monologue. I dunno why but it's always kinda made me proud to think the way I do and ******* does life get high and low and if you understood you would know what I'm talking about, but I know you probably know what I know, I just like to be a little pretentious about that kinda stuff *** if I pretend I'm the only one it kinda manifests in my attitude and I get girls easier.

True story.

Maybe.

Probably not, but if ya see what I'm getting at that assertion is part of the pretention *** I'm a ******* hipster for Chrissake, writing like J.D. Salinger, reading like Kerouac without the squinty drunk eyes of infinite sadness.

I loved that achey crane you used to call your neck
I used to passionately kiss that achey crane
maybe massage the middle more
so its 80 year contract with you
could be properly fulfilled
without having to take advantage
of the *******
warranty
again.

******* God and Angels Ltd.
free marketeers who planned our obsolescence.
give me what I paid for
you self-righteous Forbes ******.

Rainy day tired-eyes
one of those mornings where
all my 'achievements' are straw
and for all I care
they could be bonfired for blasphemy
70 years ago from now.

I woke one day to find my blood all drained into a corner
Of my room, it swathed and swooped like pasta on the burner
Under water, boiling soft, and so content to listen
As to what and where my life has gone, and why I'm missing
Life, and long red roads of ocean currents to old Goa
The world is mad! And me it's had!
At 18 is when I told yah

And I know you didn't want
to disagree.

In White Rock
They paint the rock
White.

Yearly, perhaps
To keep nature nurtured?
Neutered?

I don't mind.

Either way,

It's kind of nice
To someone.

"Man is a crushed being. Floats like logs on an empty river in a wild with no predators,
because, Man knows, a predatory wild is immoral."
no regrets.

and water once said to the wall
"Can I speak? And if I speak why do I speak this particular language? Beyond my reflective frailties and your broken back, there really isn't much to be said for the anglo-saxon remembrance of loss, now, is there?"

and the sleep in the corner of her bedroom was like a feminist strike for equal wages
there was a resentful bitterness to the way she spat her measured love.

often, she would say nothing as a means to everything,
and everything as a means to nothing,
but either way the only one listening was every one of us, so we couldn't really hear a word she was saying.

some mornings, I awoke to the curious wondering of subject versus object, and sad endings versus no endings, and you know what?
not once did an answer appear and if it did, no way was there a syllable empty enough to describe our lack of a point
so I stopped calling I, I
and started calling I, we
so we slept until 1 in the afternoon with the only shame being that of novelized continuity with its great big book on the cons of finitism we tried to return for store credit only to realize it wasn't Chapters selling, nor the writ of the holy ghost, but instead that particular angle of our face that can only be witnessed if one mirror is placed in front of another with a third to the left

and suddenly, 'I' made more sense,
what a shame?

and water once said to the wall
"all things are all things," and the wall listlessly agreed to nothing.

so we walked to the water and agreed on behalf of the wall
and the water swooshed kindly as we lay out a towel
sleep on the beach.

and the sleep in the corner of her bedroom was like a feminist strike for equal wages
there was a resentful bitterness to the way she spat her measured love
so my nervous flinch began to wonder why the real world teases with stillness, distant mountains, open roads, warm kisses, sunrises, and cold rain
when I still have to get up for work in the morning.