I dream of a day when edible forms of plastic will be in every food product, where Nestle owns the ocean, and Myspace has its own over-the-counter brand of crack rock. I dream of a day when I no longer have to wipe my own ass, everyone has a solid gold toilet, and the air smells like butter popcorn flavor jelly beans, “lifted” from the bulk candy store at the “good” mall by your “bad” friends. We’ll have candy cigarettes for lunch and hollow chocolate crucifixes for dinner. We will gather around the government alloted public gyro meat rotisserie and carve off our weekly ration with chainsaws. We’ll pray once a month to the G-dess (a poster of an 80’s model sprawled out over a neon green lamborghini wearing those light-up LA Gear hi-tops we all wanted so badly when we were youthful) Bears without their roller skates and Shriner hats will be shot on sight and contributed to the communal gyro pile. People will clap on the 1 and 3 while singing our global anthem (the doo- doo-doo-doo part of Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Suzanne Vega). Oh glory be.

Onward, upward, outword, out of words. Out of my element, my outlet. In debt, like most who make less than fresh dressed pressed creases to the right side of the track lighting, and the wrong side of the track listing, and the same side of a trick coin someones grandfather once made use of. Here we go again(st) all oddities for the tenth time in the seventh year of the current situation.

Status quo(te); unquote… to shape-shift the ellipsis… the moment of thought before action, one our kind lacks, impacting our every indecision. Movement… frostbit fingertips can’t feel the signs with brown blind eyes and an eager heart’s naive necessity.

This immaculate mess cant penetrate my fortress of less.

False teeth rest on the obituary page in the same town we stayed in, that one time. Coffee-stained mutiny, the bounty was unbearable. Fallen oaks roadblock this old river, an incentive to give up the steamships and fast money, and the pillow talk.

The same damn dream again, less vivid than days past. I wake in the late morning with dyed blond hair in my eyelash. I make a wish. I would tell you what it is if you’d only ask

The last great empire rests, sleeping off the nights havoc. Men with weapons protect children without crayons. Scrawlings of the fallen, the writing on the wall. The rantings of a wallflower, the banter of strangers. Those kids had moxie. Dirty fingernails and scabby knees are a rite of passage

Trans Ams are decidedly more bitchin’ than Camaros.

a work in progress draped hastily in a forgotten prom dress.

Kept at arms length, to the far reaches of stone beaches and safe places

A faint trace of tainted space, embraced the taste of surrender.

A pale faced portrait, of an artist, in a stalemate,

on a mission, out his mind, off his meds, up the staircase.

Through the window, down the hall, written on the wall in spray-paint,

it's a pain-staking process, to offset this great lakes weight.

Stop, nobody's leaving, nothing shocking anymore

amidst the shock and awe and rock and roll, sulking in a satin robe

sullen, stunned, stoned, the phone been dead since yesterday,

we can skip all the pleasantries, I'll just take my fucking severance pay

Fashioned after the last laugh faction’s obsession with obsession, we continue with the Great Mediocrity, which is somewhere between Comedy and Tragedy, a sign of the times.

We praise the catapult, yet scorn the flame it cannons. Marionettes and pendulums. Dark days and torchlight.

Lords and ladies wait outside the apothecaries thatch, anxious.

A beggar’s cauldron is no blacker. Silence is universal.

It’s the same lonely stretch of road, ignoring scenic overlooks
The smell of tar and fumes, where the not so distant future passes by unoticed
Tire fires burn at the horizon, where the vultures circle
To stave off the end for another night or
Times a charm til dem bad tings come
Shifting isn’t changing stated plainly over drums
What shall we overcome today? I gave peace a chance, but at 17 I let it all F-F-Fade away
Sad sad state, in the last leg of the race, face first on the pavement when I fell from grace
Will is never free
Freedom is costly
Cost benefit analysis suggests we already lost it
No more, no less than the depths of my last breath
Unearthing verses til there’s nothing else left
DIG DEEP…