This is Not a Drill

“Life’s a grind,” they say, verdant-filled cigarillo between their teeth,
and I wonder if they know what
that even means;

if they’ve ever gone a week on
eleven hours of sleep,
neglecting every mental/physical/menial

if they’ve ever woken up
from a nightmare of blood-filled

force-fed themselves on twenty bucks
a week
and then crawled at freeway speeds
through numerical thicket brambles
while listening to the constant ramblings of name-brand

I wonder if they’ve ever sacrificed their sanity
at an altar of masochistic vanity
and then watched the reflection
choke on a cheap caffeinated beverage

funneled through a Sisyphean

I wonder if the worms of
self-imposed expectation

have ever crawled out of the grave mound
and burrowed into their eyes,
their mouth
their irregularly beating ventricles.

I wonder if the central
theme of their existence
has ever been this ridiculous

and the stakes high enough
to break every last calcification
with a single blow.

Lo and behold
the cards have been dealt

and every last one of the fuckers
is a joker.

Willie Watt



Ring the Call Button

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