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How can I keep it up?
Like how does it stay the sky?
Not Folgers in my cup
That's gravity doing the job like pie
Filling my tooth
See that DJ in his booth
Mixing on the fly
Like the coolest tie dye
Like him I chop chop
And blend never stop
This is the recipe
That will never be
Written down
As I flip upside your frown
There's a message
Hidden on the edge
Of every line
On which I dine
Take the bone
And make stew
This skill I hone
Is only enjoyed by a select few...
© okpoet
Brooke Davis Mar 2014
And perhaps the best part of waking up,
isn't the folgers in my coffee cup,
but the dim glow of an iPhone screen,
with a notification of a new text from you,
a text that reads good morning,
that let's me know you took the time,
out of your busy day to let me know,
that you're thinking of me,
to let me know,
that you truly do care.
C S Cizek Nov 2014
So down, I'm drinking coffee grounds
to stay up. Pieces of bark in my

cup like a tired dog running on half-
woofs. Half & Half fizzles, sizzles

West Coast Folgers corporate doorstep.
Step lightly / hardwood floorboards.

Each creak, each door hinge "hello" couldn't
make me go. Fetch me the paper, some

poetry, a pen and a pad to write on.
To feel right on.

Lines so loose that delicates / zip-ups /
camisoles lie on the hillside

trying to poke the clouds, pop 'em,
with their tags. 100% cottonpoly-

estersilkrayon blend. Pure blend,
breakfast blend. The mug I stole

from the caf 'cause they steal from
me. Thousands of dollars every semester

for Cheerios everyday. Cholesterol doesn't
matter to me. Not because I don't care,

but because I've lowered the good kind, too.
So low, so low, the parking garage elevator

girls can't pick me up. So low on morale,
my textbook battalion would rather shut

me out.
So low that I'd let them.
Yo, shout out to everybody that worked on the album
You feel me, son? Yo, shouts out to Ty Dollas
Shouts out to Hodgy Daddies, shouts out to Left Brizzle
Shouts out to Domyon, shouts out to Frankie Ocean
Shouts out to Syd the Dude, shouts out to L-Boy Awk
Big eared bandit is tossing all his manners
In a bag and wrapping them in seran wrap bandages
Tossing 'em in baskets with the rest of those sandwiches
So when he says "Catch up, *****" it looks like an accident
Um, flowing like my pad is the maxiest
My ***** white and black like she's been mimicking a panda
It's the dark skinned *****, kissing ******* in Canada
Then kicking all out like Mr. Lawrence did Pamela
Put her in the chamber all against her Wilt Chamberlain
I never had a Reason, ***** I was just Ableton
Not a ******* Logic contradicting *******
Flyer than an ostrich moshing in a tar pit
***** scented cheetah printed tee
In that 'Preme five panel, I'll repeat it for the season
Previous items in the present
With the normal *** past like I cheated on my team
It's me (Tried to get that *****, but, Golf ****)
To have some type of knowledge that is one perception
But knowing you own your opponent is a defeating bonus
I'm Zeus to a Kronos, cartilage cartridge is boneless
Smiles of cowards in lead showers
Dead spouses in red blouses
Children who fled houses on Mustang horses and went jousting
I'm on my Robin Hood ****, robbin' in the hood
Whips, drugs, jewels, and your pet, I'm stealing your rings
Coke diamonds and your Vet, soldiers lace the ******' boot
And salute like the troop when you shoot you gon' ****
It's **** Hodgy, *****, stay the ******* my stoop
And out my Kool aid, Juice
Hodgy got the juice, I got the gin
Jasper got the Henny, my ***** we get it in
Wolf Gang party at the hotel
I call a **, you call a **, and all the hoes tell
You know Left Brain need a freak
I need a ***** to go down like a Nitty beat
Yup, uh, and her *** fat
Don't be surprised if I ask where the hash at
***** I'm tryin' to smoke, ***** get higher
Domo where that Flocka Flame? Talkin' 'bout a lighter
Still bang salute me or just shoot me
Cause if you don't salute me then my team will do the shooting
Yeah my ***** Ace will pull the black jack
The king Mike G is in the cut with the black mac
Livin' like the Mafia, *****, don't get to slacking up
And if these haters actin' up, throw 'em in the aqueduct
Free my ***** Earl, yo, I don't really ask for much
But two bad ******* in front of me *******
What the **** is caution?
Often I leave you flossin' and cause exes next to coffins
Lost in translation, the dreams you chase
Got you diving for the plates like you stealin' home base
That's great, I'm home alone dreamin' of two on ones
With Rihanna and Christina Milian, bring it on
And Travis is in the closet organizing and hangin' the *****
Three lettermans that Ace has been making him
No strays while we catchin' matinees, huh?
I'm gettin' blazed thinking 'bout those days
I had the top off the GT3 like toupees
One finger in the air, all's fair when crime pays
My grand scheme of things is to be attached
To the game like ******* to their wedding rings
And you don't even need to look cause we gleam obscene
In the light, ride slow to my yellow diamond shining
Like the Batman logo over Gotham, rock LA to Harlem
If you say "get 'em Mike G" then I got 'em
One man squadron, ***** I'm a problem
From Briggs I got bars and plans to
**** these Polish ******* into pop stars
Humanity kills, we all suffer from insanity still
And if I said it then it is or it's gonna be real
OF 'til I OD and I probably will, uh
It's still Mr. Smoke-a-Lotta-***, get your baby mommy popped
With my other ****** bop, do I love her? Prolly not
Know your **** is not as hot as anything I ******' drop
***** I'm in the zone, stand alone, like Macaulay ****
I've been runnin' blocks since a snotty tot
Big wheel was a big deal with the water Glock
Now I'm all grown, sing songs just to give 'em watts
Fire what I talk, but still cooler than the otter pop
Op Dom neck **** in your wish list
Mad sick ****, mad **** for your *******
On some slick ****, your mistress on my hit list
And I'm lifted 'til I'm stiff out of this *****
Odd in your *******' area
Blood clots give me five feet 'fore I bury ya
Suicide flow, let the big wave carry ya
Tyler got the mask like he held Jim Carey up
And **** your team, ** ***** wassup
Wolf Gang so you know we not givin' no *****
You know me dog, I'm a chill in the cut so I can
Cut it short, break it down, couple pounds, roll it up
Get me a Persian rug where the center looks like Galaga
Rent a super car for a day
Drive around with your friends, smoke a gram of that haze
Bro, easy on the ounce, that's a lot for a day
But just enough for a week, my ***** what can I say
I'm hi and I'm bye, wait I mean I'm straight
I'mma give you this wine, the runner just brought the grapes
My brother give it some time, Morris, and Day
Course you know the vibe's as fly as the rhymes
On the song, cut and you could sample the feel
Headphone bleed, make this **** sound real
Used to work the grill, fatburger and fries
Then I made a mil and them psychics was liars
Now, how many ******' crystal ***** can I buy and own
Humble old me had to flex for the fogs
Down in Muscle Beach pumpin' iron and bone
Bumpin' oldies off my cellular phone
Yeah, bumpin' oldies off my cellular phone
*******, this rapping is stupid and it's hard
Gotta do it over and over and over again but here I go
Hey it's Jasper, not even a rapper
Only on this beat to make my racks grow faster
Got a TV show, so I guess I'm an actor
*** head, half baked, lookin' like Chappelle
Rollin' up a blunt with that fire from hell
Still ignorant, still hit a *****
Wolf Gang, *****, so I still don't give a ****
Catch me in the back with Miley on my lap
**** rips as I feel on that little ***** cat
Hah, ***** came through with a 9 bar real quick
Just for the *******, little bit of money in my pocket
**** it, Wolf Gang
Yeah, **** that, look, the contrast is a pair of lips
Swallowin' sarapin, settin' fires to sheriffs whips
(Whoosp, whoosp) ******' All-American terrorist
Crushin' rapper larynx to feed 'em a ******' carrot stick
And me? I just spent a year Ferrisin'
And lost a little sanity to show you what hysterics is
Spit to the lips meet the bottom of a barrel
So that sterile **** flow remind these ****** where embarrassed is
Narrow, tight line, might impair him since
I made it back to Fahrenheit, grimey get dinero type
Feral, ******' ill apparel, wearin' pack of parasites
Threw his own youth off the roof after paradise
La di da di, back in here to **** the party up
Raidin' fridges, tippin' over vases with a tommy gun
Never dollars, poppa make it rain hockey pucks
And 60 day chips from ******' awesome anonymous
Call him bloated 'til he show 'em that the flow deluxe
Off the wall loafers, Four Loko, and a cobra clutch
Vocals bold and rough, evoke a ** to pose as drum
And let me hit and beat it with a stick until the hole was numb
The culprit of the potent punch
Scoldin' hot as dunkin' ******* in a Folgers cup, or Nevada
Drivin' drunk inside a stolen truck, shittin' like his colon bust
Belly full of chicken and a fifth of old petroleum
Supernova, I'm rollin' over the novices
I'm roamin' through the forest and spittin' cold as the porridge is
Stay gold 'til the case closed and the story end
Post mortem porkin' this rap **** and record it
To escort it to the morgue again, lord of lips
Bored of this, forklift the tippy top, best under 40 list
Stormin' the gate, ensurin' the bass, scorchin' ladies
******* sore in torso and face
Get at me with savages, have a pack of Apache
Indian pack of ****** who don't give a **** if we nasty as flatulence
As a matter of fact, your swagger is tacky
So see me you can't like Crunchy Black catchin' a taxi
Back like lateral passin'
With that *******' gladiator manner of rappin'
As an addict I let percocets and xannies relax me
Fall back if your paddies is ****, please
OF, **** that's all I got
From my bigger brother Frankie to my little brother Tac
From that father figure Clancy to that skatey ***** Naks
Shredding down 'Fax, Wolf Gang run the ******' block
Storefront, knee tat
Book cover is the same lettering on lettermans and cotton socks
And grip tape, and my shoes
Um, I was 15 when I first drew that donut
5 years later, for our label yea we own it
I started an empire, I ain't even old enough
To drink a ******' beer, I'm tipsy off this soda pop
This is for the ****** in the suburbs
And the white kids with ***** friends who say the n-word
And the ones that got called weird, ***, *****, nerd
Cause you was into jazz, kitty cats, and Steven Spielberg
They say we ain't actin' right
Always try to turn our ******' color into black and white
But they'll never change 'em, never understand 'em
Radical's my anthem, turn my ******' amps up
So instead of critiquing and *******, being mad as ****
Just admit, not only are we talented, we're rad as ****
*******
OFM, bangin' on your FM
Gnaw, 2011, yeah, Golf ****
by odd future
For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of *****-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dog tag,
Or better still a dog, a colossal pet beast,
A humongous Harlequin Dane to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is, after all, dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes and boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.

We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo, they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?

You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
He leaves you on the ice floe,
Remembering not to leave the sled,
The proverbial Sled of Abbandono,
The one never left behind,
As it would be needed again,
Why not a home in storage while we wait?
The family will surely need it sometime down the line.

A dignified death?
Who can afford one these days?
The question answers itself:
You are John Goodman in “The Big Lebowski.”
You opt for an empty 2-lb can of Folgers.
You know: "The best part of waking up, is Folger's in your cup!"
That useless mnemonic taught us by “Mad Men.”
Slogans and theme songs imbibe us.

Zombie accouterments,
Provided by America’s Ruling Class.
Thank you Lewis H. Lapham for giving it to us straight.
Why not go with the aluminum Folgers can?
Rather than spend the $300.00 that mook funeral director
Tries to shame you into coughing up,
For the economy-class “Legacy Urn.”
An old seduction:  Madison Avenue’s Gift of Shame.
Does your **** smell?” asks a sultry voice,
Igniting a carpet bomb across the 20-45 female cohort,
2 billion pathetically insecure women,
Spending collectively $10 billion each year—
Still a lot of money, unless it’s a 2013
Variation on an early 1930s Germany theme;
The future we’ve created;
The future we deserve.

Now a wheelbarrow load of paper currency,
Scarcely buy a loaf of bread.
Even if you’re lucky enough to make it,
Back to your cave alive,
After shopping to survive.
Women spend $10 billion a year for worry-free *****.
I don’t read The Wall Street Journal either,
But I’m pretty **** sure,
That “The Feminine Hygiene Division”
Continues to hold a corner office, at
Fear of Shame Corporate Headquarters.
Eventually, FDS will go the way of the weekly ******.
Meanwhile, in God & vaginal deodorant we trust,
Something you buy just to make sure,
Just in case the *** Gods send you a gift.
Some 30-year old **** buddy,
Some linguistically gifted man or woman,
Some he or she who actually enjoys eating your junk:
“Oh Woman, thy name is frailty.”
“Oh Man, thou art a Woman.”
“Oh Art is for Carney in “Harry & Tonto,”
Popping the question: “Dignity in Old Age?”
Will it too, go the way of the weekly ******?
It is pointless to speculate.
Mouthwash--Roll-on antiperspirants--Depends.
Things our primitive ancestors did without,
Playing it safe on the dry savannah,
Where the last 3 drops evaporate in an instant,
Rather than go down your pants,
No matter how much you wiggle & dance.
Think about it!

Think cemeteries, my Geezer friends.
Of course, your first thought is
How nice it would be, laid to rest
In the Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey.
Born a ******. Died a ******. Laid in the grave?
Or Père Lachaise,
Within a stone’s throw of Jim Morrison--
Lying impudently,
Embraced, held close by loving soil,
Caressed, held close by a Jack Daniels-laced mud pie.
Or, with Ulysses S. Grant, giving new life to the quandary:
Who else is buried in the freaking tomb?
Bury my heart with Abraham in Springfield.
Enshrine my body in the Taj Mahal,
Build for me a pyramid, says Busta Cheops.

Something simple, perhaps, like yourself.
Or, like our old partner in crime:
Lee Harvey, in death, achieving the soul of brevity,
Like Cher and Madonna a one-name celebrity,
A simple yet obscure grave stone carving:  OSWALD.
Perhaps a burial at sea? All the old salts like to go there.
Your corpse wrapped in white duct/duck tape,
Still frozen after months of West Pac naval maneuvers,
The CO complying with the Department of the Navy Operations Manual,
Offering this service on « An operations-permitting basis, »
About as much latitude given any would-be Ahab,
Shortlisted for Command-at-sea.
So your body is literally frozen stiff,
Frozen solid for six months packed,
Spooned between 50-lb sacks of green beans & carrots.
Deep down in the deep freeze,
Within the Deep Freeze :
The ship’s storekeeper has a cryogenic *******
Deep down in his private sanctuary,
Privacy in the bowels of the ship.
While up on deck you slide smoothly down the pine plank,
Old Glory billowing in the sea breeze,
Emptying you out into the great abyss of
Some random forlorn ocean.

Perhaps you are a ******* lunatic?
Maybe you likee—Shut the **** up, Queequeg !
Perhaps you want a variation on the burial-at-sea option ?
Here’s mine, as presently set down in print,
Lawyer-prepared, notarized and filed at the Court of the Grand Vizier,
Copies of same in safe deposit boxes,
One of many benefits Chase offers free to disabled Vets,
Demonstrating, again, my zombie-like allegiance to the rules.
But I digress.
« The true measure of one’s life »
Said most often by those we leave behind,
Is the wealth—if any—we leave behind.
The fact that we cling to bank accounts,
Bank safe deposit boxes,
Legal aide & real estate,
Insurance, and/or cash . . .
Just emphasizes the foregone conclusion,
For those who followed the rules.
Those of us living frugally,
Sustaining the zombie trance all these years.
You can jazz it up—go ahead, call it your « Work Ethic. »
But you might want to hesitate before you celebrate
Your unimpeachable character & patriotism.

What is the root of Max Weber’s WORK ETHIC concept?
‘Tis one’s grossly misplaced, misguided, & misspent neurosis.
Unmasked, shown vulnerably pink & naked, at last.
Truth is: The harder we work, the more we lay bare
The Third World Hunger in our souls.
But again, I digress.  Variation on a Theme :
At death my body is quick-frozen.
Then dismembered, then ground down
To the consistency of water-injected hamburger,
Meat further frozen and Fedex-ed to San Diego,
Home of our beloved Pacific Fleet.
Stowed in a floating Deep Freeze where glazed storekeepers
Sate the lecherous Commissary Officer,
Aboard some soon-to-be underway—
Underway: The Only Way
Echo the Old Salts, a moribund Greek Chorus
Goofing still on the burial-at-sea concept.

Underway to that sacred specific spot,
Let's call it The Golden Shellback,
Where the Equator intersects,
Crosses perpendicular,
The International Dateline,
Where my defrosted corpse nuggets,
Are now sprinkled over the sea,
While Ray Charles sings his snarky
Child Support & Alimony
His voice blasting out the 1MC,
She’s eating steak.  I’m eating baloney.
Ray is the voice of disgruntlement,
Palpable and snide in the trade winds,
Perhaps the lost chord everyone has been looking for:
Laughing till we cry at ourselves,
Our small corpse kernels, chum for sharks.

In a nutshell—being the crazy *******’ve come to love-
Chop me up and feed me to the Orcas,
Just do it ! NIKE!
That’s right, a $commercial right in the middle of a ******* poem!
Do it where the Equator crosses the Dateline :
A sailors’ sacred vortex: isn’t it ?
Wouldn’t you say, Shipmates, one and all?
I’m talking Conrad’s Marlow, here, man!
Call me Ishmael or Queequeg.
Thor Heyerdahl or Tristan Jones,
Bogart’s Queeq & Ensign Pulver,
Wayward sailors, one and all.
And me, of course, aboard the one ride I could not miss,
Even if it means my Amusement Park pass expires.
Ceremony at sea ?
Absolutely vital, I suppose,
Given the monotony and routine,
Of the ship’s relentlessly vacant seascape.
« There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea,
And I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates. «
So said James Russell Lowell,
One of the so-called Fireside Poets,
With Longfellow and Bryant,
Whittier, the Quaker and Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.,
19th Century American hipsters, one and all.

Then there’s CREMATION,
A low-cost option unavailable to practicing Jews.
« Ashes to ashes »  remains its simplest definition.
LOW-COST remains its operant phrase & universal appeal.
No Deed to a 2by6by6 foot plot of real estate,
Paid for in advance for perpetuity—
Although I suggest reading the fine print—
Our grass--once maintained by Japanese gardeners--
Now a lost art in Southern California,
Now that little Tokyo's finest no longer
Cut, edge & manicure, transform our lawns
Into a Bonsai ornamental wonderland.
Today illegal/legal Mexicans employing
More of a subtropical slash & burn technique.

Cremation : no chunk of marble,
No sandstone, wood or cardboard marker,
Plus the cost of engraving and site installation.
Quoth the children: "****, you’re talking $30K to
Put the old ****** in the ground? Cheap **** never
Gave me $30K for college, let alone a house down payment.
What’s my low-cost, legitimate disposal going to run me?"

CREMATION : they burn your corpse in Auschwitz ovens.
You are reduced to a few pounds of cigar ash.
Now the funeral industry catches you with your **** out.
You must (1) pay to have your ashes stored,
Or (2) take them away in a gilded crate that,
Again, you must pay for.
So you slide into Walter Sobjak,
The Dude’s principal amigo,
And bowling partner in the
Brothers Coen masterpiece: The Big Lebowski.
You head to the nearest Safeway for a 2-lb can of Folgers.
And while we’re on the subject of cremation & the Jews,
Think for a moment on the horror of The Holocaust:
Dispossessed & utterly destroyed, one last indignity:
Corpses disposed of by cremation,
For Jews, an utterly unacceptable burial rite.
Now before we leave Mr. Sobjak,
Who is, as you know, a deeply disturbed Vietnam vet,
Who settles bowling alley protocol disputations,
By brandishing, by threatening the weak-minded,
With a loaded piece, the same piece John Turturro—
Stealing the movie as usual, this time as Jesus Quintana—
Bragging how he will stick it up Walter’s culo,
Pulling the trigger until it goes: Click-Click-Click!
Terrestrial burial or cremation?
For me:  Burial at Sea:
Slice me, dice me into shark food.

Or maybe something a la Werner von Braun:
Your dead meat shot out into space;
A personal space probe & voyager,
A trajectory of one’s own choosing?

Oh hell, why not skip right down to the nitty gritty bottom line?
Current technology: to wit, your entire life record,
Your body and history digitized & downloaded
To a Zip Drive the size of the average *******,
A data disc then Fedex-ed anywhere in the galaxy,
Including exotic burial alternatives,
Like some Martian Kilimanjaro,
Where the tiger stalks above the clouds,
Nary a one with a freaking clue that can explain
Just what the cat was doing up so high in the first place.
Or, better still, inside a Sherpa’s ***** pack,
A pocket imbued with the same Yak dung,
Tenzing Norgay massages daily into his *******,
Defending the Free World against Communism & crotch rot.
(Forgive me: I am a child of the Cold War.)
Why not? Your life & death moments
Zapped into a Zip Drive, bytes and bits,
Submicroscopic and sublime.
So easy to delete, should your genetic subgroup
Be targeted for elimination.
About now you begin to realize that
A two-pound aluminum Folgers can
Is not such a bad idea.
No matter; the future is unpersons,
The Ministry of Information will in charge.
The People of Fort Meade--those wacky surveillance folks--
Cloistered in the rolling hills of Anne Arundel County.
That’s who will be calling the shots,
Picking the spots from now on.
Welcome to Cyber Command.
Say hello to Big Brother.
Say “GOOD-BYE PRIVACY.”

Meanwhile, you’re spending most of your time
Fretting ‘bout your last rites--if any—
Burial plots on land and sea, & other options,
Such as whether or not to go with the
Concrete outer casket,
Whether or not you prefer a Joe Cocker,
Leon Russell or Ray Charles 3-D hologram
Singing at your memorial service.
While I am fish food for the Golden Shellbacks,
I am a fine young son of Neptune,
We are Old Salts, one and all,
Buried or burned or shot into space odysseys,
Or digitized on a data disc the size of
An average human *******.
Snap outta it, Einstein!
Like everyone else,
You’ve been fooled again.
tread Jan 2013
coffee burns lungs, cigarette smoke, don't
lie. Black Folgers tastes like cigarette smoke.
Stars and visions of blank black back-then
haunt neurons, twitch tears. The *******
lights and the gaudy bulb, who thought this
was a good idea? Thomas Edison ruined the
world so no thanks to Thomas Edison. I'd
rather sleep on a dark-world night-time
than a bright-world all-time.  

the grass-is-greener syndrome, Paris syndrome,
I-exist-syndrome for the love of lavender lungs
syndrome, suicide sounds as scary as life when
you scream loud enough, that's true confinement.
Jail-time on Earth. I don't believe this, why do
I think like the devil? Can I blame it on Adam
or whatshisname?
The room was filled with burnout nuts who looked half crazy dear lord what was someone as normal as me doing here.
Yeah dont laugh im being serious or however ya spell it.

The group slash cult leader approached the mic.
Hello im Dan .
Hello Dan.

Dear lord these people were some brainwashed hampsters almost as bad
as that voodoo priestest Taylor Swift yeah Her new song sounds just like her last okay.
the only people who like her are kids and perverts that reminds me gotta put that video on mute when i
watch it it really messes up the mood what!
Im talking bout when im writting ya perves haha no im not.

Enough with the foreplay kids.
The man went into his speech how he used to snort lines that went from here to texas
picked up hookers drank till he passed out.
Hey No wonder this man was a leader he was soon becoming my hero.

But then I hit rock bottem and stopped found Jesus once honestly i didnt know he was lost.
Now he hadnt had a dam bit of fun in four years i couldnt contain my laughter
what a ***** huh?
I said to the old drunk beside me.

Hey what you got in that cup there grandpa.
He just looked at me in a strange manner must be on a hell of a trip lucky *******.
He spoke slow in a ***** old seductive kinda scared shitless by me manner
It's Koolaide.

Yeah weird mixer what ya trying to pick up kids ya nut what else is in it?
This oldman was playing a game yeah  sure dont share you old ***** hound
my flask was nearly empty and my patience was fading with every sober ***** that took the stage Jesus people it was listening to Jeff Foxworthy it's great if your ******* but honestly its one step above a ******* puppet.

The group of lame areses was almost done when they looked at me hey there friend feel like sharing?
It was something I should fight but a mic and stage was as tempting as a
wild turkey and college keg party.

Why not.

Hey Kids Im Gonzo!
Hey Gonzo jesus it was like dealing with a human parrot or Brittney Spears really
you've  seen one mindless drone ya seem em all.

I took a deep sip from my coffee with a little something extra cup
mmm acid and folgers it goes togather like teens and ****** reallity  shows ******* MTV!

Well Im Gonzo , Hello Gonzo.
Look meeting of the living braindead it's funny the first time okay.
Okay jesus these people were bad as a boy band dam three tenors yeah your all
hot and can sing opera but wants to party to that ****.

Look here  Ive been drinking since 12  umm commited alotta fun crimes
Once paid the babysitter to show me her *******  yeah I know winning.
Ive been in 20  car crashes some of em not just other peoples cars  like I can afford one.

Ive done every drug known to man and some that arent made by people named skull and eightball.
dated strippers snorted coke off of more than just a table  get your mind outta the
gutter cause if ya dont your gonna end up like me serious!

My wife is full of life and strung out on pills that reminds me
i gotta pick her up after cheerleading practice.
Ive been in the iron bar hotel many a night yeah that ****** but he hairy guys are great to cuddle with
like big teddy bears who'll **** you yeah that ****** so ive herd well yeah.

The group was silent till DR Downer spoke up but when did you hit bottom.
Sir thats my personal life okay and besides i not that hung okay.
But you stopped right.

Stopped what are you high on crack Bobby Brown?  
First off amigo its cheap second I aint stopping till im dead yeah i could work out have no
fun and spend the rest of my life speaking in front of nuts who used to be cool
Like you Irene hey personally i wish i had seen you in the ******* cause you seem
like a nice lady and really easy to get into bed okay yeah im
sensative I always pay after that's manners.

The crowd was filled with something what was this place Jonestown
Look at what ya all become eating cookies and drinking **** I wouldnt even
drink when i was ******* five okay.

And you ****** Dave well okay it's kinda weird ya hung out in park restrooms
But if only you had met George Micheal maybe then he'd still be making good  records but ya gotta have faith im just saying.

Sure you can be nice live good yeah then one day ya cross the street and some *******
spoiled brat   teenager  who just got his license runs over your *** cause he's texting sally
asking to see her **** to share e with the rest of the football team okay.

Hey whatever happend to *** drugs and rock n roll kids.
**** living forever.
Lets party now and ***** tommorow cheers I kicked back the last
of the wild turkey hitting that liver like a sledge

The group was silent yet again **** I had crossed the line yet again ahh someone needs a spanking
but enough bout lady gaga.

Sir there leader said leave now!
Just then like something off of saturday night pro wrestling.
A folding chair hit the
hugging preachy nut over the head.

***** this guy the old drunk exclaimed lets go get trashed my life ***** lets get some ***** drugs and
Irene crank the music.

And like something outta a stupid wholsome after school special my heart grew
okay aybe thats a bit much .

We were off like fellow addicts set lose in a world as ******* up as us
And everything was as messed up as us we partyed laughed made some movies of are own that probaly wont be seen on tv anytime soon.

And we lived in the moment cause its all we ever have.
And this perves gonna make sure his is
******* fun stay crazy and avoid the clap love always
Gonzo
The best part of waking up






is picking my nose
and rolling all my gooey boogers up
into one big ball,
an amalgamation of snot and crust,
then flicking it off
and trying to get it to stick
up on that one spot on the ceiling.

Y'know, that one slightly darkened spot
just above my *** stained desk
downstairs in the back room?

It's down there next to all those
empty Jim Beam bottles, well
I mean they're not empty anymore
because I keep filling them up with ****.
But they used to be empty at one point,
actually I guess they've been empty twice;
once before the factory added the liquor
and then again after I drank all the liquor
but before I added the ****.

I digress,
you get it.

The ****** spot on the ceiling.

Good morning. 🌞
uh my clan be ***** as the Taliban
with illegal contraband
got more heat than desert stand
one man stand on the mic
i rock im as hard as a ****
in between a ***** legs
gettin' ready to knock
ya out with flows i expose
the industry closed
once yosef pours
out the blessin got me foes guessin no stressin
**** and henney sessions
new lessons
daily sip irish creme baily
they cant play me but pay me
listen to styles p or bump biggie
or maybe 2 p a c
host aks at birthdays
im al caponin' it runnin' ****
like diarrhea
yall just need ta
sit the **** back while i count benjamins stacks
which be
in bundle king of the hip hop jungle
and im
going to **** puffie diddy
He soft as a nestle cookie
Make mysteries
no rookies
cant play with me in this deadly game
lite a match for the flame
burn the fame
infamous is how i keep it man
hol up


I see the hate excite of the critics
Gimmicks leave with they headsplitted
And backs more open than parachute
From the guns that shoot 21 salute
Dont ya know im soldier
I keep glocks hot as folgers
In ya cup i interrupt the scene
Once i puff red hair greens
Ya drivin a limousine
N ill throw grenade in ya sunroof
And watch it land inbetween
Ya legs
So ya can blow ya own head
Get it naw forget
All i see is yellow tapes chalks
And you being admitted
To the hospital in critical
Condition no intermission
All ya memory left is ya see is my face
Im like the son of man
Leavin competition running
Marathons cuz im the biggest don
They call me the Holy one
Cuz of the way my guns
Put holes in one
The rawest spit flawless
Talk **** we'll leave ya jawless
Throw ya remains in the death valley
With the rest of the restless carcass
Facing eternal darkness what???
**** haters poetic justice
Yo people need to wake up to break up
Stop fallin' for the same **** that's made up
Over a news spill best part of wakin' up
It's not Folgers in ya cup but exposing the corrupt
They get mad though once I talk that real **** so
This ain't a physical but a spiritual battle
most say they real but be the first to tattle
Like we back in kindergarten I'm plantin' my own
Garden of Eden yo who do you believe in?
I'm chilling off the highs of God third eye
Master the craft between a woman's thigh
Raise my consciousness to an all time high
Understand the basics of ****** alchemy
So when you see me youll see God's army
Angels to demons surroundin' me watchin' em like my closest kin to me
Most ain't who they say they claim to be
Sips of Hennessy to better glance at my enemies
In five D dimension strengthen the loosen to a  tension  that muy mind was missin'
I'll still rise over y'all still at me sneak dissin' leave no pain remission

They say Tut chill or they'll threaten your will
I feel like how X feel so I aint got time to chill
Forever holding my chrome steel roll only with the real though it'll cost me me appeal and still
I'd rather die a soldier than a coward
Times a thousand real killaz stay wilding
No smiling but I show my teeth hangin' on pains jewels like a Christmas reef
Commander in Chief of the streets it's eat
Or be eaten the ragin' beast is feasting teethin'
For the lost souls to scold in a fold I was told
The good die young and even younger
Makes me really wonder why I was made to live under
The poverty beltline envisionin' my self on the tables of the flat line
with a collapsed spine
Got **** dreams steamed  from a gory graphic design
Rejoining my ancestors in the skyline
If you count the stars you'll see my battle scars
From afar do they know we really are
I guess not the angel Michael laid me a message
In ****** scripture so I could see the final picture
vivian cloudy Dec 2016
Mom, I wish I could stay home with you today and drink Folgers instant coffee. Maybe watch some of those cheesy morning shows in Spanish with you.

I know you think I’m happy but at the same time I know you worry. I come to see you and you tell me my smile is less squinty and you are suspicious as to why in the world I would ever watch cheesy morning shows in Spanish with you.

The truth is mom, I rather taste the tasteless because what is real is too hard to gulp. And the hate that is ever looming is consuming; hate gnawing at the flesh of tenderness and glee to the backbone.

Because the world princess you thought spoke into a microphone now wears a mouthpiece and no one knows who she is. Because the fearless combatant you fostered has been gutted and she lies dead and cold on a table like a fish.

And Mom, tomorrow there will be a man sitting on a tiny speck of a chair in a colossal office. In his cut-throat world, he will cry my name and I must go into this dreaded dome. The back of his chair will face me for a minute, but then the chair will turn and with a stare so acidic, he will cut throat.

The female filleting begins as he lines us up to our destined limp. His ego well- fed by belittled spirits, you will see how quickly the pin-bones pile up. But they all bow down to the butcher, mom. “Oh he’s not so bad after all” they will say. A menace so kind, as the menace manipulates. The fishmonger back in business again.

He’s just a man gutting fish. But he’s a man with a wish. A wish to be  God. Bleached in the blah. Blissed in the blah!  Can we just watch TV and drink coffee?

— The End —