the civil war that depleted all the soil of the soul

poetry

the worst part is
i’ve got nothing to say to myself
let alone at all
the colors of fall
they blind me with apathy
coat me with meloncholy
stifle me with uno

rigi

nali

ty
clog my veins into a syrupy
oil so thick it’s
not to be used by
farm tractors

let alone human beings
i touch the brink of a
thought with the tongue
of my mind and then it
withers away in the
laziest way
the craziest way
how can an artist ever
get payed this way?
i mean,
how long until i chop
off my ear?
or
will i even ever chop
it off?
that failure, too,
is the worst part.

Livliehoods, and things complimentary

poetry

It’s a rough life out there,
listening to alt-rock records from
the nineties and wishing things
could be they way they used-ta-been,
before you needed rent money every month.

And the coffee you drink doesn’t
percolate, it’s far too fancy for
such Americana to allow. And while
there’s nothing high and mighty about
foreign cars, there’s certainly something
cocky about some of them.

Look, I’m not saying you should
break the law, I’m just saying that
not all dumpsters have locks on them,
and not all the unlocked ones say
“Do Not Occupy.”

Find yourself a new place to stay
if things are so damn difficult.
Dig?