why did that
grilled cheese make me sad?
sometimes i think it would be
easier to be a painter
with colors instead
of words in their head
or a photograph
whose retina self-absorbed
cans of blue cheese
and stinky farts that
pop out ***** *******
of master electricians
while plugging in light bulbs

I’m finding it harder to exist industrially.
Is there no longer room for beauty?
Is there not room for classics?
Does it really even matter anyway?
Is the simple enjoyment of food not but a biological incantation?
Is the power of the people not controlled by the machines,
who are controlled by a smaller group of people?
Is my every thought being watched?
How did they know I wanted the striped pants?
How did I know I wanted the striped pants?
life?
goals?
chance?
uncontrollable laughter?
I have the right to be unhappy, it isn’t crazy.
To be unhappy or to be free
When will man become domesticated such as the cows and chickens?
We’ve been Louisiana purchased.
Maybe that was our last chance oh hasn’t this happened before?
Who built the mighty pyramids?
Who has been rolling this stone but repeatedly up a mountain?
And why don’t they just give up, said the Earth.
But why should they?
Why should we?
I’m finding it harder to exist industrially.

physically
              I long for her
electric touch
            squishy soft
                         roundness
her primordial ooze
                     white hot
                     dripping
                    stick
her soft moans
         of my name
          lustful
and cracking;
        the space
         between her thighs
her eyes
             staring deep
                   into mine
and I
        staring back at them;
I long for her
I crack desperately for her
My arm extends for her
Please come back

her tapes wouldn't play
but nonetheless
       i love her
of time, when our souls
touched at that sinclair
gas station
       blue airhead
       cheeto socks
and while i daydream
she pays close observance
to me and my taste
and blows balloons
        and
tapes green, orange streamers
to the ceiling
while i, distracted
           **** on strawberries

i am 22 today

we've got insanity in the streets
and cops to keep the peace
to protect them
from their dysfunction
i am ok
as things are uncertain
my purpose
my purpose
my purpose
i am here now
and earlier i went to target
and bought a swiffer wet-jet
for twenty-two dollars and ninety-nine cents
i am constantly in awe
of the number of souls
that inhabit this planet

a Kat named Jack
flexed wide-eyed
at me
and fell back asleep
i tripped over her
one day
in Westminster
with clear skies
and krystallized
road ice
her body
breathed
rhythmically
and sat up attentively
before recoiling
into the
Flat, Kool Kat posture
which was further
exemplified
by her lowered
chin and lowered guard
she sat staring
with eyes closed
and mind dreaming
and mind dreaming
of mice
trapped and maimed
by her grace;
of warmer days;
of kittens
who paw at each other
and play;
of that day
you were jailed
beneath the deck;
of fear
long dark night
creaky footstep;
of voices
punching, calling out
and loud thumping;
of scramblings
of prey and
warm meat;
and eventually after
careful deliberation,
the Kat named Jack
awoke upon return
schizoid and wide-eyed.

Through etheric mediums
She called upon me
With sweet vocal lingerings
And a fast good-bye