The saints of hustle descend upon the unfulfilled,And proselytize of their victims’ future fortuneIf only they’ll grit their teeth and grind…grind…grind… From the other side of their mouths they’ll remindTheir quarry that grit isn’t enough and suggestThey also create a clever new design…design…design… Monetize your hobbies and even your downtimeSuch that your rest isn’t for…
The mornings are better without you.I can watch the gray give way to blue,Let light creep in where you reclined—Shaping my expectation,Building anticipation. No aftermath, or hours-long bath,No drowning in your stench.No raw-throated prayersOr mirror-eyed staresAt the wreckage of your wake. Your lips promise warmth—A slow burn, a whispered hush,A debaucherous dive into lust. But…
The bullshit was thick, and I needed a drink.I headed to the cupboard, right on the brink.But when I got there—motherf—it was bare!All alone it stood, taunting me, if I dare. “I’m all octane, baby, but check out my label!I’m great in small doses, though a bit unstable.I pretend I’m not neutral, flavorless, forgettable—No, I’m…
You fool.You’re not apart from the herd;You’re a part of it.Aftermarket?Still mass-produced.Your individualityAn affectationOf a common ideal.Your skill?Below average.BrashnessMakes you bold and stupid,Not nimble and responsive.Oversized egoAnd undersized bits.Compensation on your window. You pack animal.Oakleys and Skoal.Mountain Dew spit bottle.Commoditized pride(A Chinese export).Begging to be triedSo you fulfill a dream.Pumping gas and a mixOf Morgan…
Cowed into silence by a draconian voice,He seethes and bites his tongue.The monster’s words yield no respect,Only bitter resentment from the young. Belittle and ridicule for amusement,Not for efficiency or order.The dwindling days ‘til exodus meansTime for honing a legacy grows shorter. No one wants the beast to die,Just its atrocious behavior.But if fading away…
You’ve never heard my children’s laughter,Never felt their worrisome trembling.You’ll never pet my dog,Never clean up after her droppings. You won’t feel the wind on the backOf my motorcycle,Won’t know my favorite colorOr why I say it’s so. Our hands will never touch, no more hugs.Our feet won’t share another stride. We could’ve laughed.We could’ve…
Meager men oozing desperationOver thirst traps and box gaps.They shoot their shot,Blowing their wad.Because words are cheap. Quasi-romanticTo outright lascivious,They run the gamut.Impotent in any event.Aiming to rise above the fray. Bottom feeders frenzyingOver derivative delusions.Proudly proclaiming (unawares)Inevitable incelity.Masquerading as dreamy and steamy men.
Nursing himself back to better feelingsWith another amber ale.It drowns last night’s dull acheAnd the taste of chips gone stale. This glass is unlike the others.This one holds all the keys.A lifetime cradling conventionBeats worn and weathered knees. The fizzy, familiar liftCounterbalances life fallen flat.A final sloppy slurp—“hasta mañana”—He shuffles across the frayed doormat.
Another round of validation, provenDevoid of real reciprocity.The moth-eaten gossamerConcealed not the trap. Muddied waters aren’t deep—They are unmoving and tepid.There may be mystery,But there is no awe. No one slakes their thirst thereExcept in desperation,Because predators lie in waitNear the banks of stagnancy.