My friend Billy stated unapologetically over earl grey tea and orange zest scones that the premise of his all-time favorite novel consisted of a man having *** with a goat.
With some resistance, and perhaps skepticism, I asked him, “Why?”
“Because the world would be incredibly ******* dull if we all just wrote about humans containing stardust.”
“Well, we are all technically…”
“I understand that. We are also full of water and feces, animated toilet bowls if you will, but I doubt that would flow exceptionally well from my calligraphy pen onto a textured piece of paper. Humans are often no more than a messy and selfish group of animals, governed by the illusion of creativity, law, and morality.”
“Is that why it was your favorite novel?”
“No, I liked it because it was ******* hysterical.”

Black craft paper in hand, you watch as the snowflakes land
Your kindergarten teacher explains that each one is "beautiful and unique"
But now as you look in the mirror you can see neither

When you were little you used to love to catch lightning bugs
You would watch them float in the Mason Jars, as the July air kissed your cheeks
But you don't notice the seasons anymore, do you?

For you, time passes unnoticeably
Lost between the coffee breaks and the heartaches
You push life aside
Until nothing
is really
left.

Tragedy is heavy
It rests upon a gradient of scraped knees and broken hearts
Only those with tenacity will ever see the light

The frustrated poet runs his fingers through his hair,
then strikes the last word of his final verse in despair

Across town, a painter incinerates a wooden facade of a steeple
For the existential artist, hell is truly other people

But the sculptor who whittles his work with a knife
Is solely the one who values his life

For he understands that the process of creation,
Does not rest within pre-calculation

A yard stick was used to measure where my skirt is supposed to end,
just long enough to make sure that my body did not offend,

You see it wasn’t lady like to dress in that way,
or to play video games where the premise was merely to slay

The only coding I ever came to understand,
was any form of foul language, of which was tacitly banned

You argue that women are inherently more cooperative,
To which I would argue that humans are merely imitative

While women are no longer obliged to do housework,
I am, at least in part, merely a product of my international network

I’ll be your house wife,
Red heels, and dinner in the oven
Yes Sir, you will live the high life
We can create our very own coven

When you were seven,
You had been conditioned to react to the closing of a door
Like Pavlov’s dog, your reaction was impulsive and assuming
Only it wasn’t Pavlov’s dog floating in the above ground pool
Behind existential and translucent eyes
A worn Louisville rested in your left palm
You sat behind that open door,
Begging him to close it with every fiber of your being.