"I think you're moving",
my sister told me over the phone
in the car with my girlfriend's parents.
"Why don't I know about this?",
I asked her, but the answer was
painfully obvious
so we just laughed obnoxiously,
bleeding from the mouth.

Everything happens behind a veil.

Can't remember much of what I wanted to say.
Cracked on the porch staring a stray kitten
in the eyes. It wouldn't approach me,
I didn't wanna go near it,
so we just stared.

To make this contract informal;
I'm sick of this planet.
****, it's hard to pity or feel sorry
for people who are just as weak
and pathetic as yourself.
It gets difficult to not just hate them
like you may glare at your reflection
with some type of spite.

They're all diseased and petty,
creatures too smart for their own bodies,
but trapped inside them, caged.
Arrogant, then desperate at their
squishy and feeble vessels,
trying to make meaning where there's vacancy.
Their own holes are full of tar
and dead things.
Their voids hold no "humanity".
Pure rot.

When I die I don't want to leave
a god ****** thing behind.
Not a smile, a foot print,
a handshake, or idea.
No fond memories.
I want this planet to
disassociate
with me as I have it.
The citizens of planet earth
can forget about me.
Should forget about me.

We can't just stare forever.

Everything is papers,
words and looks,
power for power.
Undermined by the system,
"We don't cater to you."
"Takes money to make money."
Takes time,
I have none;
nothing to give?
Someday you'll find me lost
in a paper bag, throwing immature
punches. Breaking nothing.
Aiming for a glass jaw.
Waiting for the dirt,
and everything else
is just...

there.

Daylight fades too quickly
and leaves you struggling like a dead fish
against a time limit you have no intention
of keeping or realizing, in even a small fashion.
The money runs out.
The money always runs out and
everyone is looking for a handout
no one wants to give.
Especially those who can afford it-
it's like a void;
a golden density not even light can escape.
Makes me wonder; "Is the money really power,
or is power just power,
and the hierarchy and patriarchy and system
just keep whatever stains in place, despite their incompetence?"
History seems to provide ample answers to the right questions;
Why does the day feel so short?
Why does retail labor feel like a pyramid scheme?
Why does work feel like prison?
Why are employers so scared of unions?
Whatever, right? Those ******* would give you an answer
after three separate commercial breaks and a survey.

Everyone views the person under their foot as less than human.
It's how we're able to procreate and sleep at night
[a night that comes quicker every day now].
A curtain over a birdcage; we're all just dozing off.
******* around.
Studying everyone else's face,
looking for a nervous twitch to decipher
whose bluffing,
believing we're doing swimmingly in our own *******.
The next generation built on our corpses, secrets and lies.
Corpses, secrets, and lies.
Let the world burn if we can make it past daylight.

Hallelujah for a zombie;
another plot in jazz and if
nothing makes sense,
I'm capable of virtue,
I'm capable of correct.

Capable of air.

Even between the two;
******* a redhead on the bathroom floor,
trying to fall in love with someone who just
feels ******* honest and sincere,
groveling at, practically, a stranger's feet.
Execution for a criminal
made in poor fortune.
I'm a deity and demon,
and a cannibal if you count the self,

or at least capable.

I'm a teacher and a taker,
a piece of *** and
a *******.
Reading american books
and looking uncrooked in
horn-rimmed black glasses.
I'm not unforgettable.
Gotta find a classier way to wear black;
teenagers killed it for the rest of us.

Made it hard to fit.
Impossible to be a champion,
can't take the weight of the crown
or the density of gold.
Bit the bullet and cried out,
"No."
The ghosts are us now.
Amen.

The internet has killed the value of everything,
and sometimes I wonder where we'd all be
if we were behind typewriters sending transcripts
to ****-head publishers who trash the mail,
or burn it in winter. Not quite kindling.

We'd be in the hole about five dollars more,
and still cashing **** paychecks, if we're
lucky enough to get jobs.

Maybe living out of boxes, suitcases,
the backseat of a stranger's car,
or squatting in a basement with
three different species of arachnid.
Romantic.

Anyone who envies the experience
of the oppressed is a ******* *****,
and deserves exactly what they
are so eagerly wishing for.
Everything else is just information.

Homeless. Crazy.
Everything is smooth.
No,
no one really knows enough.
No one cares enough, or gets it.
Close to charity,
all is oppressive.
Keys on treble, wishing
everything was ******* brilliant.
My planning is a bet that
it all comes part unevenly.
Yeah,
neon smokescreen,
lime green cigarettes,
and I'll leave you to carry
that sentiment on your
shoulders.
I hope you feel empathy like
a child that's ****** the bed;
warm and embarrassed,
take as a symbol of
habitual  weakness.
Take it like a pill with tap water
that sticks in the throat like a brick.

Next door to inhumanity.
Every day is slightly
darker
than the last.
****. forgot the punchline…
something about how daylight fades
and darkness falls.
If we could all be so clumsy and respected.
A "feared klutz."
Anyways.
All the geniuses are dead,
and I hate most writers;
Snarky, uppity, *******.
They're all dirt now.

I passed a man who spoke gibberish,
but ended his mush mouth with some
statement about getting food.
I told him, "I got nothing on me."
I lied. Of course I ******* lied,
I had almost $270 dollars in my wallet,
cash.
I don't even know
what  I'm supposed to do with the money.
Just **** it away, I guess.
Start looking for another handout myself.
I can see the lines-
washed out, skillfully ignorant or oblivious
&
whoever said I was a loser first,
won the grand prize.
Some truth in the
universe.