Red Focks: Thousands of Non-Biodegradable Plastic Bottles Filled With Piss & Cigarette Butts
FEBRUARY HEATWAVE
I may just stay in this bag all day.
Like a pink Bunny, I go on.
Hours, divisible by dopamine.
of compact minerals.
Playing connect the dots,
with flickering streetlights.
There's no rest for the virtuous. I close my eyes.
I dream about the calcium in my bones liquidating.
I dream of sweet caramel and honey licorice.
I dream of a parallel lifetime,
which leaves me hungover.
I dream of rest.
Will the real middle class please stand up? I see twenty-million foreclosed houses and everybody I know is just one ride in the back of an ambulance away from poverty if they haven't gotten there already. Al Bundy used to be funny before moving into a mcmansion with his modern family. Peggy got to keep the kids and the debt. A raised ranch with a white picket fence used to cost seven grand; now that won't even buy you a used Mercedes from 1980 with no breaks. Superstores have absorbed the mom & pop shops. Some fucking scumbag with a bowtie lies through his teeth on the 24 hour news stations. He says that anybody who wants to raise the minimum wage is greedy. So will the middle class please stand up? It seems to me that if you're not all extinct you're a severely endangered species.
Tempered Steel
Tempered steel
is no different than
tempered
man:
worked
and manipulated
and fashioned
to fit the
needs
of
others.
Professional Pour
I sideways pour the Budweiser tall can
into a waiting malt glass.
A professional pour,
just like the bartenders do.
Almost no head.
Then I sit and watch the
yellow bubbles float up
to the surface, imagine them
the air bubbles of many
tiny invisible fish.
I take a long deep swig
and think of the school of fish
I just drank down.
How they live inside me now.
In a lake of perfectly
poured beer.
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