And hello Everyone!!!

It's good to have you. get comfy. Imagine we're in the same room, imagine I'm handing you a cup of coffee, or a beer, or cigarette.
Or soft, fuzzy slippers.
Peruse. enjoy yourselves.
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good to have you. Stay awhile.
love, world wide dirt

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

no education

Heres a design i did a long time ago.

Times like these

Why is my dad looking at Abe like that?

I literally haven’t done my laundry in a month now. And yes, when I say “literally” I am considering its implications. Amongst said laundry are a pair of wool socks that should never be worn in this climate, let alone five times in a row without washing.

It only costs ten dollars to fix a bike tire, a price that I greatly overestimated, explaining the bicycle with the flat tire in my living room. I should have looked into that a long time ago. I believe I received some brain damage in my sleep sometime.

Nights like these, which are all, when I don’t get any sleep, its too much caffeine and not enough booze, I am losing the gumption.

There is so much to watch and read on nights like these, more so with every one like this, too many minutes to waste, to watch, just like that.

But I read Shafer Hall while watching Matt Dillon as Bukowski and enjoy both, though reading and watching both before.

Then Rushmore and Reno 911

Then NYPD at four, then nothing, then my eyelids, then maybe there are fleas in the bed, then maybe nothing again, then me turning the tv back on and watching Reno.

I just got a text. It’s late, but not just for me.

Monday, February 25, 2008

contracts out

Hey chrome dome, get off you high horse, let us see the real scales
The flan, the old score.

It’s waiting or guessing and the camera keeps clicking,

First date, I’m sorry, there’s a bathroom window that needs opening
Like the girl from happiness and little children, no chance
It’s a barrel of laughs or monkeys,
Dad watches mash, I drink heavy,
Loping toward psychotropic hairstyles and bad folks,
That’s not to say at all, that the sun also rises,

Tax forms in the bursars office,
Repress if you can, out of school,
Campus counsel. Lets not get knowing,
You do?
Yes I do.
Sorry and sad, some people don’t get a chance,
Some do, but no matter.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Love Letter

Not for the first time in my life, I'm guilty of jealousy. Sean, you little fuck, you wrote a book, and not only that, you wrote a good book. There are scenes of sheer crazy comic book action, inventive fantasy, and it tugs on the heart strings too. Jees, That last scene over the phone almost had me in tears. You got real characters. I guess they ought to be since they're you and your brother. You got a real story. One good rewrite and it could be published.
So keep watching the Borders bookshelves, faithful world wide dirt readers. One day "The House of Will" will be on the bargain rack.

Dust and Worm Food in 2100

the things that Wilbert wanted to say
ended up sloshing on the hay
the girl couldn't care and time forgot
the color of those lilies he bought

never say never if you're clever
never say never, say whatever
marriage is as real as a dragon's flame
it's as real as hot lust after you've came

just don't pay Wilbert any mind
there're 450 billion of his kind
he never did leave his home on la grange
people can move, but they don't change

forests get eaten one leaf at a time
the mountain got leveled, but he wants to climb
born to live and live to bore
he went to bed happy, but he woke up sore

Saturday, February 23, 2008

tell me, its ok

Plainly it is not the same. Wells deep and screaming up to heaven to a god, godless. Television does some awkward things to possession, I saw it in subtitles in the bar while I drank Budweiser, which by principle I don’t, I discovered soon after the PBR tall cans for five dollars. In the past buying them from my friend at a bar no one particularly liked she was the best at being cute and slanging drinks, and wailing through the static.

Castro is a man I don’t know, beard and exploding cigars aside, he served as a demon, for children. Rafts deflate miles from the shore and refugees make the water home. Let not, lets not go there. Some friends are in some way giving themselves into frustration, long forgotten since I lost my gloves and smoked to many cigarettes, of the non-exploding nature.

Matt is sarcastic enough and a good panel man. Bill Maher though not all the time funny, is worth rallying behind, I understand that McCain is old, that is humourus in context. Hillary’s husband got a blowjob from an intern, really though, who hasn’t, been blown or blown, whether it be prime opportunity or money or enough of enough. Barack if I had to guess will be standing, when what’s done is done, I think so because, he makes the most each day.

Everything about firing a missal into space to destroy a satellite is stupid, assnine on every conceivable level. This does come from a man (myself) or a guy more comfortably (myself) who does not believe in space. Me and John Locke agree on that level, faith and stretching miles of space don’t seem to sleep. Wallpaper so far away in a place that if relevant, will not exist for me, I see it, someday I may believe it. But stars and satellites and moons and planets and galaxies and black holes and wormholes and spaceships, all of it, is retarded and unworthy of our time.

Me and Parker are better than other people who do what we want to do, laughable and adorable are the shows I see that will never last, they will never hold or produce anything, they will never, until the pin drops and the remains, the carcass is butchered. So thank you ‘New Amsterdam’ and ‘Eli Stone’ for crushing my dreams and pushing me to smoke, with shaking locks and bowed head.

Well thanks for nothing, I am owed of course, so please leave the pot roasts and casseroles and money and book deals on the doorstep.

Friday, February 22, 2008

the beast with too many backs

there are some words that I forget
i think i’d like to by your debt
a nephew coughed two days before
he bought the rich and ate the poor

holidays can run away

twelve hundred greenbacks in a day

a dollar spent is a dollar burned

an angel's wings ain't bought, they're earned

noontime takes a little bit

have you seen her middle tit

the tanks locked it in their sights

and told me that it felt air light

i can't believe that it's not better

a child came to write a letter

princes died in golden gowns
and couldn't take their molded crowns

giants can't defeat our town
our coffins never make a sound

eventually, the path does widen

more room to walk, but no place to hide in

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

For the Record, Sean Does Not Have Feelings

He has robot parts and he has never cried or shown emotion in over fifteen years of friendship. One night, when we were in San Diego last summer, I heard him say in his sleep that he was actually an alien spy sent to collect tissue samples from Earth. And don't get down on being an autobot slut, Sean. Sluts make the world go round. Taking sluts out of the world would be like taking oil out of an engine.
He has, however, written a book that I'm halfway through and which is pretty god damn entertaining, even though it has the grammatical sense of a ten year old, and it really seems like some bizarre nightmare me or Sean would have. Everybody in my life (as a product of them also being in Sean's life) is given a fictional representation, alongside monsters and crime and sex and violence. Good stuff. Every character's life is in shambles after their youth is gone. Sean, you don't even enjoy your young days enough to miss them when you're old, so don't worry.
Hold Tight! I just saw Death Proof again yesterday. What a fucking movie that was. It's a French New Wave film with a serial killer and a twenty minute long car chase scene. What the fuck?
Want an update on me? I'm ten minutes away from orgasm.
Good night, and good luck.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

don't really like it (the truth) at all

i do like him however

What’s wanting when you have everything you need,

in mind at least, in theory at least.

really though, it would be better wouldn’t it.

leaves and soil time, lemons and less

limes gin warm lint

outdo me if you can, outdo me if you must


toll time and its less, less than go round, less right

wrong, I miss my brother, I miss the fam

I’m sick of ankle deep, grime and sleet, of mud be gone.

Dry, crumble rot, saber tooth cot.

Should I be over it and not worry,

Remember, I may be a slut

but I still have feelings

when I say I, I mean me,

I mean sean

Heartburn in America

Its living it down in America, the need but not by all to succeed if not exceed and exceedingly we draw our pain to sheath.

My roommate saw a dead body outside of the mall today and Castro Resigned, something is amiss.

I am pulling away from the things I love and reversing oh reversing the change, it holding and clawing and breaking the knuckles of all those singing.

Shatner knows that if they leave the booth something bad will happen to them.

“Don for heavens sake.”

This is dying in America, where they make you choose, from beds and legs and women and friends and endless, oh jesus I can’t stand it. Its stupid isn’t it, stretching out your worth, calculation what good you are in trade.

Well let me say this and let it ring…

We are not bargaining chips, we are not worth or not, we are rotting flesh and breaking bones and blackening teeth and eyes and window cleats.
We are not how many billboards we try to get on or how many scripts we almost get made or how many songs we should never write, I being the last to hear, the last to listen to and the last word to take to any sort of heart,

Conniption, fittingly, this is not at all right.

I couldn’t be more sorry that it took this long to hear.

We are scrambling now, the eggs of further all.

I am sorry I didn’t see it sooner.

Now I do, and so what.

Now its to look back on all the lies, the little ones, you thought would make things better, the dark spots in your memory that the booze chased away, the pain in your lungs, the pop an whiz.

Now it’s a jog back to the days when things were joyful, when love was something that meant a god damn, when we were in all stitches of fiber the chosen ones, the children of horror, the murder, the taking

And fucking
And filing your life
Filing it away

Now its showing some mercy upon yourself, blacking out and making breakfast, throwing up for the first time and the acid it brings, smashing mailboxes and sleeping with strangers and running for president and enslaving, eradicating, watching the impending doom of this, this thing, ugly and gaudy like too much make up, like botox and vampire eyes, like bloated lips and purifying failure, its this

Death in

Death in America

Now it’s us all alone with the burden, the burden of turning off the shit and all of it, turning off the catatonic hours, but more than that we are Shatner, pumping the devil machine with pennies, we are obvious and great, like Shatner.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!

It's a winter wonderland. The wind carries flakes in loops and they stagger on my window and on trembling tree limbs. I won't leave the house today. I have enough food, drugs, and movies to keep my mind limber. I don't have anywhere to be until 5:30 tomorrow, and I could probably get out of that if I tried.
Last night, it rained. Minutes later, ice glazed the entire city. People slip-slided and fell, but everyone was drunk and in good cheer, and strangers were pulling each other off the frozen ground. It was beautiful. When I got home, I pealed a layer of ice off my coat. I woke up and just laid in bed not doing or really thinking about anything for an hour.
I already learned today that the average founding father died in their 60's. Second most popular decade to die was in their 70's, then 50's, 40's and 80's tied, then 30's, then 90's. If you took each one of their lives and played them out from end to end, it would go on for thousands of years. The shit you would see!
What do you know? I am leaving the house today. I'm gonna go to my neighbor's for a late breakfast. Wish me luck.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

so damn thick you need a battering ram, sam

cars funny fast
dashed past the postmast disast
hallelujia, oh my darling clementine
come on my climbing
climb on my garage
barrage my favorite sea things
like air and teeny teeth
for brought sub dart
part with my ear to get a better
reading of kilometers per eighth of a negative kilometer
and I reckon that home is wear the harp is
I'll never get past that ribbon, so might as well
take it down: but it can't touch the ground
it is bright
it is Thursday
thank God
for the things I forget to be thankful for
for my capacity to outweigh all good
with one bad
for the flower order I canceled
for the flour at the bottom of the bread
for the bad poetry I read
that said "hallelujiah, wee willie winkie"
waste not, be not
eat not, see not
pee not, butter and jelly
christmas with kelly
lousy antipasto at the deli
calamity in thirds
singing's for the birds
killings for the past
worries are for the present
all of them are worth resent
dents pop and cuts clot
california, baby baby


with all perception of me being a phantom
or falcon growing seamlessly random

so sad and sick of war and for what.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

im just saying

is being so far

is it

has it

your pretty

but don’t like all

the compliments

and its trying

or is it?

That matters

Somehow I don’t

Think I seem

To be


About the way

I absolutely

Look at



Well you know

I fell

That way

And its

Just the

Way I do.

So when



I mean it

No matter



It may seem

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Life on The Line 3

My brain feels like sour mash today, too much Crown and Coke, too much Red Stripe, too much everything. I’ve been attempting to write a lot of stuff today with very little luck.

That being said I have to work at 6 in the morning at my new job down the street. I’ll be stocking all the art supplies.

I never know when the Pro Bowl is but my guy AP took home the player of the game award. So lets give it up for that. If they find a quarterback they should be ready to roll.

Parker is coming to visit. Our collective assholishness will most likely be enough to re-ignite the California wildfires.

Honestly this is the best I can do for today, I know its pathetic. Not at pathetic as Charlie Bartlett, if you want to see a real piece of shit, pop that movie in.


A World Wide Dirt event is coming in the ides of March. There will be summit held and our Midwest branch will be making the arduous journey to the city of angels to meet with the inferior West Coast branch. What will happen at this summit, you ask. Well, a lot is what. There will be drinks toasted to the poets and scientists and gods who have passed. There will be a pissing contest. There will be hugs, glugs, tugs, and nugs. There will be wine, women, and song. There will be transcendence. There will be exchanging of ideas and stories and thoughts and a drunken session in which all the mistakes committed by both branches since the last summit will be exposed and transcribed in a leather-bound dosier. And by God, there will be blood. You can join in the fun by finding us and just giving us some money, just because. It all goes to a good cause- we're gonna buy dye and I'll dye myself yellow to support our troops and Sean will dye himself pink to say, "Hey, I'm down with the battle against tit cancer." When we hug, we'll look like a gay and revolting Easter egg.

"Who are we to argue with taller ghost Walt?"

Friday, February 8, 2008

Life On The Line II

The elevator opened the other day in my building and some dude was standing in it with his pants around his ankles. Now he wasn’t hanging brain (as Creed Bratton would say) but he quickly pulled them up, like he was surprised to see me standing there, in the lobby of the CNN building.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I’m thinking that but I don’t say anything and he leaves the elevator. I check for feces and don’t see any.

There is a guy who looks like Yoda who until recently I thought was my enemy. He is pretty hilarious and he doesn’t make many calls, I think he’s worked there for a long time and he doesn’t give a shit anymore. We both like Shaq.

“Hi you’ve reached the Richardson’s if you’re a telemarketer you can go get fucked.”

I’m broke, which if you’ve read anything leading up to this, does not come as a surprise. So my uncle got me some Best Buy gift cards for Christmas. With no cash for groceries I’ve been stopping in before work and picking up a couple of sodas and a bag of cheez-its. California Dreamin’ bitches.

Rang Tang Ding Dong (The Japanese Sandman)

Who are you?
I am the Japanese sandman.
You looky like the Japanese Sandman.
Uh, he goes, uh- rang tang ding dong

ah say dilly wah

ah rang tang ding dong
ah say dilly wah

ah rang tang ding dong
ah say dilly way
ah rang tang ding dong ding
i am the Japanese sandman from across the sea
I got all the girls a-lovin' me
I am the Japanes sandman and I know I'm great
I follow behind all the playboy's rules
I am the Japanese sandman from across the sea
Hey, all you babies, pay attention to me
I wear a pin stripe jacket made of funky foo yang
Polka dot shoes made of yang and sang
I got a mean beret from my ring tang
Burgundy pants from my own needle shanks
I am the Japanese sandman from across the sea

Hey, all you babies, pay attention to me

-by The Cellos

Thursday, February 7, 2008

Life On The Line

I recently took up a position at a telephone fundraising company in LA. Don’t get me wrong, this is a job that I would never in a million years choose to do but in light of recent financial hardships I really don’t have a choice. On the basis of the confidentiality agreement I signed I wont divulge the name of the company. Its too bad really because had I been able to say there exact name and location I would have thought up all sorts of lies and fabrications to make this new World Wide Dirt feature more entertaining.

That said everything following is the truth.

People care more about animals than other people. Charities raising money for the protection and treatment of animals are far easier to raise funds for than say The NAACP or ACLU. Can’t say I disagree. About half of people are assholes, about a forth of dogs.

A lot of people customize their answering machines with poems. One today ended with ‘and birds with broken wings don’t fly.’ It said something else but I was too busy thinking about all the places I’d rather be.

It’s easier to pretend your dead than say your not interested.

Someone ate all the free Ramen in the cupboard but no one thought it necessary to clean the carpets.

Evidently I don’t know the abbreviation for Nebraska.

George Bush thinks that the best way for teens not to have babies is not to have sex.

Civil rights are the most important thing on earth, more important than honesty, so important that we will scam all the old people to get it…all the old people.

Ok, if powers that be find out I’m lampooning their efforts I may be killed, this may be it.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

_.l.. ..l._

Rats on easter do their best to not be eager,
or shiver in the endless winter, most comb
most kill, most seek all sorts of thrills we-
eping, changing, in losing effort fucking so
brainy, oh swell of summers windless wa
ining, sledge head master shed runner, wi
th all dead souls on the master mast, die
Cast pierce mummy fuck all crusted out a
nd all dried up each thrusting breaking for
mal train. I’m dead and just from knowing
. lolita lets not get crazy, im an older me s
o full of maiming, though long ago we turn
ed a pigeons wing to cinnnamon spelled wr
ong then righted, its time for this old man to
get the fuck out of town, his welcome is ov
er stayed and almost utmost over done well
done i friend some people have all the luck.

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

the Other day

there are some things I like to do.
I like to rock and roll with you.
I like it when the band plays funk
and we have champagne in the trunk.

I like to ride on red eye trains
and stir my drinks with candy canes.
I like to see you now and then
on a scale of ninety, you're a ten.

I like to write you silly poems
and outlet shop for mustache combs.
I like the air around your lips
and your profile in an eclipse.

I like to like to like your heart.
when I see the end, I'll seethe start.
I like to think of you and me
and all the things that start with 't'.

it gives me a comfort in this empty void of existence that 16 million people tuned in to an hour of poetry last thursday at 9/8 central when Lost premiered its fourth season over the airwaves. it's a new show now: a new premise, a new story, a new way of telling the story, amazing invention that still preserves the characters that have been so carefully and gracefully detailed during the last three years. Lance Reddick from The Wire is an amazing and intense actor who played the bad ass and mysterious Matthew Abaddon in Hurley's flash forward. Ana Lucia's old partner is off put by the coincidence of arresting a man who was on the plane with her and he displays this frightening uncertainty that all the characters are adopting on the show. nobody seems to have a clue what is happening and things are sliding out of control fast. the only one who knows what's up is Locke, but he's been hanging out unseen in Jacob's shack with Christian Shephard wearing only one white tennis shoe and presumably Walt is around there somewhere too. Michael is returning to the show in the next couple of episodes, and it seems that Hurley, Kate, Jack, and three other motherfuckers are in the same boat that he was at the end of season two: they've sold out the rest of the group and their conscience is making them pay for it. It is genius the way the season is headed toward some unavoidable catastrophe.

soft. heaven will not allow
the forgotten drums of Babylon
to thump against the foreign wind
and die before the ages end
tonight is tomorrow is the last seven years
all forgotten with pints of tears
together, we shall overflow
the mighty toe that drags to show
frayed corners of dirty rags
sooty webs and damp stone bags
wallops happen for a reason
no, not really, only teasin'
eventually the dirt trail widens
room to walk but no where to hide in.

Brambles in Shambles

the first section of something new

By the time I get to my seat in the waiting room it’s already been a shitty morning. These days it’s easy to get like that and usually happens sooner rather than later. The dog wakes me up twenty minutes before I have to get up, which is early as is. It’s fucked from the beginning. Either it’s me burning the coffee or the old ball and chain running me down or its stepping on a roller skate and eating it down the front steps.

But this morning starts shittier than most. It starts to go bad before it starts.

All a sudden I’m scrambling down the side of the road. It getting dark and the grass is slick. He’s way ahead of me and he won’t slow down. I try to scream after him but my voice is ripped away from me and jettisoned towards the sky. He gone and so is the sun; the moon bleeds in its place.

“Abe! Abe! Get up.” It’s Ilene and she’s nudging me. Back when we first got married she would rock me awake, hell, even kiss me awake, if I was lucky jerk me awake. Sharp jabs with the elbow were what passed for affection these days.

“Jesus Christ all fucking mighty. I’m awake. What is it?” My chest feels weaker than yesterday but I haven’t told her and won’t if I don’t have to.

“You were saying his name again. It’s been fifteen years, we don’t need to have this discussion every morning.” She rolled over in her baby blue robe and didn’t say anything else. It used to be dark blue, she used to be pretty, she used to have a glow to her. I fart in the bed and walk to the bathroom.

Standing in front of the mirror I rub my stomach, some pretty sizable stains have formed on my tank top under each arm. I started going bald about ten years ago and I marked that as the true and definable end to my boyhood good looks. I have gotten fat as fuck.

My socks are in the sink and I didn’t put them there, I suspect the beast I sleep next to. I have a habit of leaving my socks on the floor, its not a terrible habit, there are worse habits, some people have drugs habits for instance. Since the marriage went flat she’s found ways to subtly punish me for all the things that annoy her. Me, I don’t do shit, yeah she bothers me a good deal but what do I do, I shut my mouth, I get on with things. I leave the socks in the sink.

There isn’t any hot water so I tug one out quick and pull on some dirty underwear, I used to dress up for work, everyday I would wear a tie and slacks and the whole deal. Now I only wear a fully washed ensemble a few days a month, following laundry day. I cut myself shaving and stub my toe on the bedpost.

I had graded a bunch of papers the night before and can’t find them. I had stopped paying attention to a lot of things, I couldn’t really remember what the papers were about but I think it was something involving “the new deal” or FDR or what the fuck ever. I ended up finding them in a folder under a coffee table. Darla’s kids must have moved them sometime last night. Darla is my sister in law; she’s a lot younger than Irene and has two young children. They are annoying and I sort of hate them even though they’re children. They always have some sort of shit on their faces, be it spaghetti-os or ice cream.

Looking through the papers I realize I haven’t graded some of them, which isn’t really a problem seeing as I didn’t really read the other ones. I give some vague notes and leave it at that. I make oatmeal and it’s too hot. I burn my tongue and spill down the front of my shirt. Normally I would go back upstairs and change my shirt but I feel if I have to see Irene for another second today I might strangle her.

There is no gas in the tank and I wasn’t the last to take it out. I used to be responsible for that sort of thing, looking out for the family. Now I’ve just gotten sick of taking care of things and I don’t feel selfish for it. I’m already late for my appointment which means that I’m going to be late for work which means that asshole Garzo is going to be up my ass all week, again. Garzo, that smug ball licker.

Pulling into the gas station I realize I forgot my wallet on the nightstand.

“Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.” I open the door to the Camry and slip stepping out by the gas pump. The oil marks on the cement have crystallized around the edges like they do in the winter, not when it’s just a little cold, when it’s really cold. When it cuts through your clothes and makes your bones ache.

I fish a couple dollars in change off the floor of the car, which is just enough to keep the gas tank from freezing, I pay for it and strongly consider stealing a snack from inside the store. The clerk gives me a dirty look when I hand him a handful of dimes. I want to break his fucking nose for the way he’s shaking his head and counting the coins but I don’t. I don’t even say anything because in general I’m kind of a pushover.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m full of anger but I rarely do anything about it. I kicked a guy’s ass in college one time for a reason I can’t remember and I chewed out a guy at Subway a couple years ago. Beyond that, total pushover.

I can hardly feel my hands when I walk into the doctor’s office, so cold in fact that I can’t feel myself pissing on my own hand. I wash my hands and check my hair in the mirror.

The girl behind the desk is a looker. She has her hair pinned back high and tight in a knot of some sort, a bun, that’s what it was. I throw her a glance as I approach the counter and say my name in my smoothest Bond voice.

“Dunleavy, Abe. Four o’clock.” She smiles and I think I’m doing quite well in my first flirtation of the day, that is until she looks down and her smile turns into a smirk. I look down and see that my fly is open. I grit my teeth and walk towards the waiting room.

The magazines all suck and are old as shit. I read an article about Curtis Enis when he was still playing at Penn State. Article has him pegged as the next big thing, hilarious. The doctor takes forever to get to me and I’m fifteen pounds heavier than I was at my last time I was in. At least I don’t have to strip down to my skivvies. After a while the doctor comes in to talk to me and he has some bad news.

When I get back outside it hasn’t gotten any warmer but it doesn’t bother me as much as it did before. I don’t even zip up my coat. I get back in the Camry and turn the key. Nothing happens, I guess it wasn’t enough to keep the lines from freezing.

“I’m fucked.” I wasn’t referring to the car. I was referring to my heart, which in a medical sense is fucked.

Friday, February 1, 2008

And How...

We are living in the wrong age.
Where music is weaker and drugs are more dangerous.
Where its hard to talk and easy to text.
Where money runs and problems come.
Where its hard to see the difference between football and politics.
Where that’s the way they like it.
Where reality Tv is an excuse for reality
And for entertainment.
Where people give a fuck about Tila Tequila.
Where people voted for George Bush.


We are living in the wrong world.
Where the soil is dying and no one gives a fuck.
Where health care robs us blind.
Where sickness is strong.
Where love is a dollar and a dime.
Where people would care
If they had enough time.
Where we watch the news and believe it.
But still don’t care.


It’s me,
I don’t care about these things
It’s easier.
I live in the wrong me.


i work two jobs.
the bird flew out of my hand.
i threw a net on it and broke its lungs.
it hissed at me til it died.
i work four jobs.
outside it snows, but
cockatiels can live anywhere, any condition, as long as they have a warm shelter to come back to.
they'll fuck, but she won't get pregnant if there is no nest to raise them in.
i work seven jobs.
two birds in the bush are better than one that's choking to death.
they have red cheeks like they're embarrassed, but they can't be embarrassed because they don't even know that someone else could observe their behavior.
too cold to dig a grave, so we eat him with spaghetti and Carlos Rossi.
i work ten jobs.
everybody knows this is nowhere.
i'm giving this to you on a golden platter.
the soup was good.
you hurt me, but he's dead, so.
open season.
i work thirty-three and one third jobs.