Masses

There are spherical torsos stiffer than bristles, and lord be damned if they don’t pour from the mouth of the universities like molasses, allegorical like the national dumbing

Seeking any job, seeking complacency in the american toe-hold of a dying earth, but ultimately finding purgatory

Why is education enterprise? Why do the young walk blindly into the echoing rib cages of bastardized industries? Why are tenure and hollow praise tacked upon the bastions of this endeavor saturated?

Flinging sputum, cleavage, personal debt, unread textbooks, they pile now like scaly manatees into cavernous giant’s-skull room, empty but for cold projector light holding ancient dust like a tractor beam steady

Orientation begins

Bros

Syrup’d coffee slugging and dribbling o’er stubbled chin shadowed by yesterday afternoon’s drinking, neglect of razor, glassy eyes rimmed in red and purple

I have to listen to these hogs squealing, clapping, patting, hoofed feet piggy jigging to the tune of beer can exploits, tailgate tales, vague descriptions of drunken fondling, hollow pleasures

I pray, I plead, chip at that passionless crust, sweep asbestos crumbs to expose your golden favors, that which encloses silence around you

Press your meaty paw against the cool earth, find that vibration to sustain you outside of the bottle’s bottom

Children Eat Lunch and Talk About Toys

The pigs are at their troughs licking sticky syrup’d fingers in hot earthy shit pile landfills of their own design

Wasteful engines of commerce chomping cups of styrofoam toxic plastic choking cancer death fumes, personalities as bland as the flecked and sugared oozing hot garbage juice, fetid in the blinding barren death sunlight

Crooked flies on veiny wings screaming, sucking shit laden fibers and tendrils of string mucus

These are the piglets of the plastic obsessed culture, with sparkly spit in rivers down double chins

Pile, waste, pile

as the skull sun sets and Nature applies the salve of Darwin

“I Can’t Even”

Bathed in the stale sterile light of the department store, plastic smooth lady face smiles, complains over me, yes me with my body down here in sharp crevice

Their makeup, molten plastic in thick humidity, talkin’ ’bout boyfriends boyfriends boyfriends husband material, gazing ever outward except for coffee orders, preference for milk and sugar, clothing, fashion dictated by idiots, television, magazine life

There’s, like, aways time time time time for daily gutting and shitting on people who aren’t around, but, like, never time enough to finish sentences

Inarticulateness sticks in throats like fishbones, in brains like plugs, eyes like pencils

There is no nobler profession than fitting cogs into the big machine, there is no star too close to torch the earth, there is no way I can’t write this down