and i’m not sure
whether to 
fuck her,
fight her,
hug her,
or take aim at her skull
with this
Louisville Slugger —

and then an electronic savior
validates all the entropy,
all the close brushes with madness,
all the nights grinding towards infinitesimal satisfaction,
all the memories of alcohol, grass, and acid.

and there’s a couple thousand reasons to cry:
relief, ecstasy, agony, apathy, ripped clothing, sleepless eyes roaming in hallucinogenic fear and loathing;
and, in the end, there’s nothing to do but
look long and hard in the mirror,

raise a toast to yourself
and put a hand on the glass,

because, goddammit kid,
you can raise a middle finger to the past 
for a single night
and worship
the empire
you built with 
just two hands and the willpower
of Atlas.

i’m holding a self-contained ecosystem,
and Darwin is smiling
as he crosses the

Willie Watt


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