What do crayon boxes, lawns and Roseanne all have in common? I, with great conviction, can most assuredly answer this simple inquiry. They're all terribly evil. Each one of them sparks hatred and self-deprecation, whether the prompter be noticed or not, within the lives of human beings. Roseanne's actors who play the lowly, average American family on dimly-lit Suburbia of the 80's Street are all well-paid actors working to pay off their maids, hairdressers and drivers. Fat fathers fucked fat mothers in a shantily constructed bed with hotel bedspreads and chipped headboards and afterwards the fat mothers would make dinner for their fat children and fat husbands and the young one's didn't suspect that their parents were fucking and the food probably had their fathers semen on it but it's okay because that's half of what they are, if not three-fourths. So, logically, you would think it would just absorb into their bodies and make more of themselves. The fat mothers would sit down at the dinner table, fold their hands before their plate and smile, thinking their children and husband would actually come to visit them at the dinner table, but they didn't. They ran off to watch Roseanne, dinner plates and all. The fathers would make believe Roseanne was their quirky, jestful wife who was even funner in the sack and the children would wish that the lesbian daughter was their friend because she liked watching football AND she had long hair that they could play with. All of this set against the backdrop of the quaint stylings of faint orange, yellow and brown of the early and late 80's. A chainsaw tore through a hotel bed on Roseanne and meanwhile the mother's would be sitting at the dinner table, one fist holding up their heads and the other shoveling meatloaf into their mouths where the rest of their husbands' semen had melted away. This is not a matter, all humans have come in their mouths at one point or another. Even Roseanne. Maybe a fat father wishing to come in a fat mother's mouth actually got to come in Roseanne's mouth and maybe Roseanne did make dinner with dirty hands.

Your lawn is not a necessity. What if you woke up one day and all lawns were purple instead of green. Would everyone have a conniption? We should let grass grow tall so we can all walk through it like we're in a jungle and maybe all of our lives would be more mysterious and the police men wouldn't be able to target us as easy. We could even walk outside naked, given you don't mind grass and brush nestling up in the cracks of your ass and crotch. Your ass and crotch might like grass and brush. Ass and grass rhyme, they must be compatible.

And crayon boxes, crayon boxes are like pencils to our universe and they make me wonder what it would be like if I cut a slit in my eye. Would it look like everything that I think exists had a big rip in it? Would it look red or would it look at all?

They're all evil. Much and much. Exposed and unnnatural. When did lawn mowers even come into the picture, anyways and what did it look like before that?

“A schizophrenic, one lost in the structure of thought ,”
They say,
As they wipe away foam from the sides of his
Mouth.

“A living room inside of his head? With couches? With intellectuals?”
They question,
As they record abnormal
Brainwaves.

“Intellectuals that discuss great literature!”
They jest,
As they record their peculiar
Findings.

“Emerson, Cervantes, Joyce and Milton,”
They impart,
As they reach psychological
Conclusions.

“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower,”
He says,
As he rolls his rheumy eyes into the back of his
Head.

“The secret of being boring is to say everything,”
They respond,
As they partake in delights, like salmon and
Tea.

“How nice, to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive,”
He bolsters,
As they cross their legs and
Sneer.

“Last words are for fools who haven’t said enough,”
They finalize,
Reaching forward and closing the
Blinds.

And so we dissipate into circles and light.

mood: without sleep.

table of contents:

thought [a].
followed by thought [b].
[c] moves onto the stage, but slowly.
[d] is never granted permission.
and [e] speaks his mind.

author's note:

i'm sorry,
this wasn't meant
to be intentional.

dedicated to:

observations.

try to avoid:

indignity {it's only you who can tell me apart}.


preface:

if and only if there are reasons why i
have chosen to come here, there will
be a picnic in my pineal gland and it
will never end. bring napkins, please-
things might get a little bit messy.

mood: hungover