I think of the desert horses
The ones that got fat when corralled
Because they were so accustomed to foraging for every last calorie.
Utterly Ignorant to the reality of things
vicious and impossible to train.
I think of the space behind the McDonalds on Washington.
where they strip wire
these sub-human revenants of shit drugs
Encapsulated in the struggle of everyday
and it weighs in places
So immense and immovable that i sometimes wish i couldn’t see it
It weighs in its endlessness, that smells exactly like unregulated refineries
The stink of these fucking trains
the reek of airborne carcinogens at all times
Framing everything in futility
As we inhale our ephemerality, ad nauseum.
somewhere there’s always a tire burning
There is always a shrieking homeless person
There’s always some hick-ass Janet throwing trash everywhere
And for what?
Meth isn’t that good.
But neither is this poem.
neither is anything. From homeownership, to marriage, to becoming a doctorate. The long life that’s filled with joy and prosperity— It’s always a struggle. This endless fight within oneself.
The jihad.
Sloppy and irreverent. Foolish and irrelevant. Empty and reviling.
Like so many cockroaches I crush every single morning in my empty sink, in the futile attempt to reduce their endless numbers that well up from my downstairs neighbors.
Like a plague I shall never be rid of.
In the way that money never loosens its grip. No matter how hard I work, no matter how much I make, it seems, I will always be poor. The inflation will adjust to subsume whatever earnings I have, the situational effects of my economic class will always mire me in this. I’m just some bastard from San Bernadino. All of my intelligence and sapience and experience are just dressing from the reality of a life I cannot escape.
our generation is meaningless. Overburdened by the overbearing. We cannot make the changes necessary to salvage our future within the parameters of the time we have.
And I think deeply on this.
I’m literally writing this. I’ve got good drugs and alcohol. Why the fuck would I be doing this instead, it’s not profitable.
But nothing really is anymore. It all just feels like so much subsistence: money and time and energy and resources emulsified together into this loud, ranky, poverty-stricken shitshow.
And it’s like, “What’s the fucking point?” because the gathering of other people’s trash is an endless prospect. Coupled with a world filled with their braindead progeny. And all the affiliated pollution in tow.
What is another day in this perpetually fighting country? Another school shooting, another slur-worthy politician, slaughtering innocence with class disparity. Another gate-keeping member of upper management appointing their cronies at every opportunity because the corruption of this city is complete.
There seems to be no escape.
Trapped on this planet with people that are actively ruining everything.
Getting fatter by the day, because I was never meant to experience this level of comfort.
It makes no sense. None of this makes any sense.
But the hunger, that makes sense to me. In the way that those horses would bite and kick and rear up. But you just keep your wits about you. And i never got hurt, though others did. And keeping eyes on them, chest out. Like, they never gave me a hard time at all. But that didn’t change their fate either. And those motherfuckers all ended up at the dogfood factory.
So what does it really matter?
these people blacked out in their own squalor. These horses too hardened to save their own skin. This virtuoso too mired in the shortcomings of the present reality. As we are all broken upon a wheel of our own measure. As even this is not significant.
None of this:
you can smell it, and it smells exactly like warm kibble
saturating the backed up freeway in a snowstorm.
