how still are their lives?

and what if they met one day?
the arrangers of strangers within their routines.
so deep into your own life that you forget what you look like.
maybe he was right
to
pick
them
apart.
society cut him off and this was the way to keep holding hands with the child they swapped
between houses every other week.
you were supposed to end up like this. shut up. and my sister finally got quiet.

the drifters, the shy lines between our eyes drooping lower than the fullest of diapers.
why do we teach them to carry around their shit.
setting them up for life from the day of 1st waste.
the turned heads and mean smirks, and eyes following my hands but never scrolling all the way up to the scar above my eyebrow.
two years ago, fell off the counter, looking for life in the wrong place.

discovery came and like those left behind cigarettes hiding in the cracks with gum that couldn't keep up its color, and faded to black, and too the compliments stored deeper in her mouth than the molars she'd been growing for 19 years as of last night.
10:30 PM, just a regular, you know.
It all looked the same shade of green, or maybe is was grey like the circle around the
iris of grandad's eyes, the fur we lie in, and scurrying but always leaving that behind.
you lost the most important thing to your family, and you can't make up for that.

the swamps they call home, we try to clean up, why not have another resort.
do tourists really enjoy themselves all that much?
a chance to go someplace nobody knows all the messes you've caused, you can keep it under the umbrella for 10 days. And hide away, become invisible, leave behind last year, try again next time.

and to intrude upon this cycle was like giving the middle finger to mother nature--she would strike back--she could see all the times you stepped on the cracks--not the proper kind of worried like your neighbors were of breaking their mothers backs.

mind you the truth will come out like a bas nose bleed- and you will be excused from consciousness-- don't raise your hand, thats just wasting time. permission is never granted to the careful, the hands that go back over their script correcting it in tiny bits until everything mushes and out comes a solid--uniform thing--too much alike.

who says its better or worse this way? Close your eyes if you want to kill that part--the idea of perfection has no place in your art.

you give mcdonalds your money you fucker complaining about homeless people asking for handouts while you gladly pay high taxes to a war that we don't have a place in, who funds stupidity , who funds ignorance, who fucks the world with dirty fingers, and uses purell because soap could leave behind the good and the bad.

the sign said take one only.

i hope they leave a stamp on your grave, may the middle class rest in peace.

and your mantra remains: complaining feels better than oxygen.
climate change, hit me upside the head, and when i picked up the criminal it
played two years late like a signal going off somewhere
another oil leak, another boomerang.


this is all random notes but it made a little sense so ill leave it here 4 now,
casey