oh, god bless america,
the nation of narcissistic narcoleptics,
and protect her from harm
while she takes her afternoon nap.

oh, god save the stagnant,
all living to die,
so their bellies may be crowded
and their hearts pounding
so fast,
so fast,
for you, heavenly father.

give us this day
our daily fourty-four ounce soft drink
and quarter pound burger...
and don't forget the fries.

and forgive us our intolerance,
just as we...
err...
nevermind.

forgive us,
for we know not what we do.

amen.

jack casual was a hard workin' man,
put bread on the table,
kept the roof over our heads,
and kept that dog, nellie, from gettin' 'er sorry be-hind run over.
yep, ol' jack was worth his salt.
he used to play his acoustic for us
when we were tikes,
back when we had an air conditioner.

when it broke down,
ol' gran-pappy,
jack's dad,
had him run out to the store to buy a window unit
and a slurpie.
then pappy would stagnate all day
in the back room while we sweltered,
and he'd send me on errands on my bike,
and read week-old newspapers,
and yell at jack to
"pay the ******* bills"
at four in the morning.

jack wanted to send him to a "home",
but mama never did like them.
she said they were "unsafe",
"unsanitareh",
and "unhospitible".
so gran-pappy stayed.

yes sir-ee, gran-pappy stayed
for three long years
with his banjo
and the growin' pile of slurpie cups in the corner
of that back room where it was cool.
until that one night
when gran-pappy called mama
a name the dog had done learned to respond to,
and mama said,
"jack,
just put him in the home!
a lady shouldn't be treated upon
in this mannuh."

that was the last i ever did see
of ol' gran-pappy,
but i still remember the last words he said to us:

"...and bring me back a slurpie,
it's one hot ******* up in here
and i need somethin'
to cool me off a spell!"

Kerosene passion,
matchbook teeth,
you strike your tongue
and breathe on me.

Poison envy, 
acid breath,
oh, how I'd dilute
all your wealth.

Silver beauty,
copper soul,
I know how quickly 
you'll corrode.

Brimstone anger,
iron face, 
come back again
and do your worst.

pick a rose
next time you see one.

smell the flower.
then,
***** your finger
with its thorn.

keep that rose.
extend its life as long as you can.

when it dies,
***** your finger
with its thorn.

when the roses of early years
have lost their luster,
when they're given to drugs and liquor,
the thorns will still be there
who weren't afraid to ***** fingers
and be found as a nuisance.

thorns remain.
they leave their mark.

in life,
the victors will always be
thorns.

Victor Thorn.

you are a butterfly among the moths,
a honeybee amidst the wasps,
ms. unattainable.
you are a living,
breathing
undertaking.
so why try at all
if the envied one
has already
set his sights
on you?

Do you remember that old quick stop
(they tell me it's a drug store now)
where we would get our beer each Saturday?

The clerk would ask "The usual?"
even though we were underage
and slip me a can and you a bottle.

I could hold my liquor well.
I always offered to trade with you
but you insisted on the bottle.

We'd drive to a far out field,
the sun giving way to the horizon,
and lie down in the grass.

The can served just enough to get me
buzzed,
but you poured yours out before it was finished-
you might have gotten drunk.

When the sun had set one night
you gave me the news.

I said,
"Put in the effort to tip back
your bottle.
It holds more than you think."

But you were my can.

from bouts of false reality
to this state of new normalcy
were seconds in between,
but it gave you something else to be,
made you happy (finally),
it dried your tears and eased your sleep.
i think it's called maturity.

forget the doctrine of
loving,
leaving, and
losing.

but enjoy the triviality
hold fast the spontaneity
you're granted, free.
this is the realest peace
you'll feel,
this fleeting serenity.

this normalcy unique to you
will rest upon the others, soon.
they'll fall in line and follow suit
in time.