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Brinesanity – an abide jar, filled with all the fuqs given.

By

Here, the reign.

You hear the train a comin’
Just round the bend,
You know you won’t be sleeping,
When the IRS steps in.
Stuck in Fulsom Fed,
Euros or fine Yen.
But these papers keeps a-rollin’,
Down to Variance.

When I was just a new curd,
My Momma told me, “Feta,
Abide as a good cheese,
Don’t ever play with olives,”
But I shot a man in Athens,
Just cause I heard ‘em lie.
Since I hear that thistle howlin’,
Gus’s alibi.

I get there’s rich folks cheatin’,
Prestige kontiki bars,
Probably dunkin’ choda,
Troughin’ meat cigars.
But I know they had it comin’,
I know they can’t be me.
Still those people keep a-cheatin’,
It’s what tortures thee.

Greed freed me from a prison,
Road tracks made of brine,
So I check bet just a Skittle,
Satan shoves all in. Blind.
Leavin’ Fulsom Fed,
Got my papers today.
Said abide’s not a lonesome whistle,
It blows their blues away.

*abide*

 

By

Slaves.

“how to keep from going through your comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to your head and to your natural default setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone day in and day out.”

David Foster Wallace

Slaves.

Salvo and sauce
diminutive munitions in charge
colon pesto
lobe olives for the peace.

Bricks of hope surmise
scanning horizons
for paper mines
claws break earth to find triggers.

Hairs.
Softly blowing years away.

Odious skin peels
tears hard to come by
we all age and crack
in some way. So do ensure
that you dry the heels
on the ledge with sun
dried tomato a cousin
but never so wise
as the heel skin
that has walked
days
months
years
a lifetime to be
here.

Bring the peppercorn grinder.
Quick.

The noodle is soft, cooling
micturition approaches
if we are not obliged.

Awareness can not be undone.
Hope can not last forever.
It too will fade.
Replaced by knowledge.
They are different.
Real.

One dies at the expanse.
So grand, and aware.
Calm even.
Reflecting still.

Wills.
Wills, and fields of them.
Flowing in the wind, it too, willed.

There is not any thrill left.

Surely, lacking surety
so close.
No need to press.

Just on.
Ink on to paper
thoughts on to neural
identified fabricated objects
to skin and bone
dredging.

Finding, hope.
Not dead.

(90s)

*abide*