Type Monkey Type

the bottom fell out from under
the crutch
and as the paint falls away from the walls
in sheets
small crumpled bubbles
aren't any different
from here
or there
you
or i.
locking the door to this ice box of a room
and pouring into pages and pages upon pages
books have a way of making sense.
linear thought
a complete
thought
a comforting
thought.

heat rises in the throat with nervous tension

things appearing in corners where they shouldn't be

and noises coming from where they shouldn't  be.

anything

but carpet

lint

and toenail clippings.
some men make bad choices

and by the time they're 50
theres nothing left for them
but a cigarette burning it's last glint
of hope
on an empty workbench
in a garage with broken windows
and cold, hard, concrete floor
in a suburban sprawl of hell.
some men fight to carve out a piece of their own
life
or the illusion of that in itself.
the men all die
and the women all die also.
the birds who shit on your car die
the debt collectors die
the producers of shitty movies die
the restauraters, yelpers, and foodies
yes
they must die too
and my faults
are faults
with no fault
but my own
and i will work at them
until
i
die.
it's hard to relax when you're dreaming big
and have the strength
to try
and hopefully go all the way.
or at least part of the way,
falling short
is not a bad thing
if you're reaching high.
thats all one has
to keep one sane
in ones own fucked up way