they were once new too,
and i'll watch sitcoms till these eyes explode
do the twist until
yr hips explode
but actually i'm ready to go out,
we are ready to go out.
what will the ultimate ending be?
we all seem to know roberto bolanos seedy death for the working poet
death ripe as a pomegranate seed
that gets made into tea.
When we get high,does our consciousness really expand
all the way from death's tiny kernell
to a huge blue sky.
---all these stoners in bright shirts and rope sandals
all these working folk with their tan boots and carpenter pants.
all these cliques----
sharks in the water
scared of the hell of the surface
expanding into the night
into the night,
terrified of city hall
sometimes a man must give up on certain types of politics or political affiliations
and instead buy a stick of deodorant
and rely on spellcheck
waay to much in his writing.
it's a lot to admit.
the roaches and the crickets
fuck each other wildly
in a ciceda-esque night.
some still sleep a bureaucratic autocratic beauty sleep
hitting us like a slug to the chest
so after that bar closes
the mayors sons and daughters
had much on their conscience
they were left pondering
at 1:35 am
who will sweep the floors when we are gone?