degenerate

The stench of menthol cigarettes saturates
my hoodie
but you act as if I had a choice
my actions
are not dictated by some innate cognitive
recognition
but rather, driven by my unconscious
desire to fulfill the evolutionized
brain; overreacting by overacting chemicals
stimulated by the oversaturated noise of life;
attempting to dull them into a lull
so that
for
just
one
night
I could sleep

unmotivated

I hate all of this shit

we have to do,

or are supposed to do.

 

And who are you

to say I have a problem?

Perhaps you’re projecting

your unhappiness unto me,

because I am an easy target:

hopeless

helpless

lazy

argumentative

 

the earth continues to rotate;

I walk against its

spin

in order to keep

the world balanced

as a target for your

hidden sadness.

Day Drinking

There is something shameful and

Beautiful

About drinking during the day

 

The warmth of the liquor

Coupled with the rays

Of sunshine creates

A euphoric feeling

Of self-confident opulence;

And don’t give a fuckness.

 

The type of liquor doesn’t

Even enter the equation

As the potency

Eventually

Catches you like the roaming

Cat purring for a meal

 

And as I stumble

and stammer

and struggle

and stagger;

I’m worn

and ragged

 

and with all the odds

stacked against me;

I am still completely

unsuccessful.

 

In the end,

The House always wins.

between the lines

The words, formulated,
and meaningful,
are spoken to me,
and to me,
they make sense.

I’m supposed to do this,
and that,
and so,
that’s what I do.

But alas,
there was another message:
subtle,
booming,
and completely unrecognizable to me.

And so,
she left,
and here,
I remain,
still trying to figure out what just happened.

doing what you love

“Do what you love”

 

I hear this phrase often,

Almost as much as,

“To be honest with you”

As if you were about to

Spew me a line of lies.

 

But doing what I love

Requires a certain

Pedigree:

Ability to process

Poisonous chemicals

That destroy vital organs.

And to disregard

People

As if they’re ants

Which they are,

But the macro-view

Doesn’t apply here.

 

I like to die every night

 

And return to life every morning.
Eventually, there will be a mourning.

altima

so many altimas

and even more black altimas

criss-crossing lanes on the streets

with windows barely cracked to release

the Florida heat or perhaps a mosquito

that made its way into the vehicle.

 

Each altima devours my attention;

rubbernecking, looking for that one;

you know, that one, the one you’re always

thinking about; dreaming about; imagining you’re with

intimately

sharing memories and thoughts you’d only

share

with that one.

 

I wish I knew if she still had an altima;

but then what else would I do while driving?

snap chat

A phenomenon

just occurred

in these modern times

and for this antiquated

and

old

man.

 

I just had seven…count ‘em:

SEVEN

views on my snap chat.

 

The girl at the bar

apparently, a playmate

but who could tell these days

in this town of tans

and fake tans

and faker tits

 

But I reached the desired number

of

seven.  Seven views.

 

Just imagine

a

one hundred

thousand dollar

donation

from each.

 

I need another drink

and maybe, just maybe

an eighth snap chat view

 

My life would be complete

and future generations

would bow down

and worship

 

like the old days,

when Zeus cleaned the floors.