I smoke too much, and I think too much.
I drink too much, and I hope too much.
I write too many mediocre poems,
but I publish them anyways so the un-initiated will be re-awoken–
–holy roman centurion firing roman candles
over coliseums of societal obstacles,
and the crowd’s reaction
Literary vacations are
for the fake,
and I’ve made the beginnings of a career
by showing my low-resolution face with
the warts intact.
The world moves faster than pop-culture becomes
obsolete, and trying to keep up is a madman’s
–but God bless the child, my satin headrest
is the bigger picture, the kaleidoscope of metamodern tinctured hard liquor,
I’m brewing the essence of a generation in an aged casket—
–bottling the good and the bad shit in a goddamn wicker
worthy of Moses;
Lord, let my fellow weirdos go, and deliver them from watered-down gin-and-tonic,
and, Lord, let all the shit we create
quintessentially dope and potent.
Hope is for the weak,
but willpower is the magnum-opus shotgun blast fired into these nests of rodents—
–and this bulletproof supersonic
is the elixir
of the strong–
–and we’ll battle this uphill Sisyphean current
an Eminem song
between gritted teeth.
Prepare to meet your maker,
but don’t be surprised when
she’s everything ever