And I arrived here
All washed up
Broken now, poor as I was before
But older, less chance of making the future I swore I would
Washed up
Crawl up this shore of broken words all crashing down
I’ll scratch out my first epic poem
On a cardboard sign, homeless
‘Will write for pussy’
And these words
Like junk, shot up in between my toes
So I can still wear short sleeves at work
Take naps in the conference rooms
When nobody’s looking
When everyone’s heads are down
Clasping hands ands keeping their eyes closed
Murmuring ‘something something something, Amen’
I am usually thinking about Starcraft
And how good those mashed potatoes are going to be
As soon as you stop talking.
Coffee sucks.
But if we stop drinking coffee… What will that do to the environment? Suddenly, Starbucks is precariously perched on the brink of bankruptcy… Hundreds of thousands of workers are faced with losing their jobs. Tens of thousands of Brazilian coffee bean field workers will riot in the streets because they will no longer be making 4 pesos a day. The chaos in Brazil will undoubtedly spark wild fires that will burn large portions of the Amazonian Rain Forests!
Viva La Revolution!!!
Without these rain forests, CO2 will sky rocket and suddenly global warming is no longer an Al Gore Revival meeting, but the real deal. Ice caps melt, New York is flooded, California is gone, the markets collapse, the country is purchased for 4 dollars and some canned peas, every American learns Chinese within the year. Americans revolt and one crazed military official pushes “the button” rather than live under oppressive, foreign rule. I mean, we are AMERICANS, right? We should be doing the oppressive foreign ruling. And then, BAM. Nuclear winter…
We need to save the world and go to Starbucks.
Because we don’t want the nuclear winter. I mean… I know I am busy and all but I think I can take 5 minutes out of my day to buy a mocha. To save the world.
And maybe we’ll get our names on a plaque.
I wish I could remember how you smelled
I know you did not smell of sanitizer
of pain, worry, and clean sheets
I wish I could remember
Because hospitals are not how I want to remember you.
“What do you mean, ‘you were a man,’ what does that mean?” Asked the casket. It was curious, curious and speaking softly to its quiet passenger.
“I mean I was once a man, and now that I’ve died, the mourners will come. They will deliver a eulogy, all my friends will stand here and say I was a kind man, and that I lived a good life. And then they will cry that I am gone.” The corpse spoke softly, silently and the casket did not understand.
“Why would people cry over a corpse?”
“Well I wasn’t always a corpse. I was a person, once. I was a husband. Look, there’s my wife.”
“I can’t see. I’m a casket. You can’t see, either. You are a corpse,” the casket said.
“I can see. I’m here to see my funeral before I go to Heaven.” He watched the people mill about in their dark colors, holding each other, placing flowers, some crying.
“Corpses don’t go to Heaven. People go to Heaven. Corpses just rot.”
The corpse tried to fidget uncomfortably, but was immobile. His arms were crossed impeccably over his waist, and his shoes were laced tightly. He again spoke to the casket, as if it cared.
“I am on my way to Heaven.” He stated.
“Again, corpses do not go to Heaven. I’m just a casket and even I know that. If you were going to Heaven, why aren’t you there yet?”