reuben has no inspiration

I always wanted to be good at skateboarding. yet every time i found myself the pacified drunk lunatic with a beer shoved up my ass on someone's front porch, confused and diluted i liked to wander around alleys converting backwards christians into the malfeasance we call passing interaction. and with those stoney skaters of the backwards eighties i found solidarity but only in passing glances not to be confused with the california cool. we all get this way. pacified and nonplussed searching for an endearing character flaw that could resemble a home somewhere along the wayward cannibalistic doped out highways of yesteryears. constantly masturbating and finding home in the solace of pederast nuns we mutter slurrey promises into telephones like we had any fucking idea what we were talking about...and where were we? oh yea in my mom's garage as i demonstrated my lackluster kickflipping skills and wished i had enough money to buy the deck and the t-shirt that would make duluth cool. again. lost in a sea of adolescent fuckenall i pushed nails out of my head and spat jubilee while we wallowed in our degradation. fuckferall no oneenall. open wide and willing i gave my communion.

An epoch of the anti=modern has begun
fists spoil the earth and dire hands sprout up
we are facing history, in all likelihood, as fear is coughed out of mechanical death-reign hierarchies, action heroes are abundant, and Rand lounges in the corner as an immediatley fuckable ride=paid art major, coughing up smegma and claiming value is not a virtue.
inherently pissed=off couch surfers flood Aldi's for all it's microwaveable worth, hegemonic food theories rustle up histrionic filth ( like any family reunion...it get's weird), smile/talk/smille/wal/KKK
\redirect.
The guy flips through pages like junior/former KGB spits stupid and shrugs the spirit off, all hollow-wind and chest hair, confronts the monogamy of opinionated philosophies and produces farmer throws of good times and bad press. like a fucking champ.
our son.
the father.

a bar is a bar is a bar Pt.1

He sits there like an armed missile swilling his gut-warm whiskey.

his mind stumbles along like incoherent bank-tellers dead cow eyes and perestroika

his anus clenches and releases and he seethes and defies all his fellow bar patrons

his a fucking missile

a V2 rocket

he had always wanted to be a jet pilot, although his family had no tradition of military service, there was an insidious sense of arousal which would flood his penis any time he heard mention of "our brave pilots in that awful mess"

but from his experience in "awful mess" a more appropriate statement would be:

"How many darkies did those egomaniacal speed fiends fry today in that Goddamn Shithole?"

-------

He finishes off the whiskey winces and sees him.

(A miasma seems to settle over any establishment which Clive McKensey enters, a troublesome sort of desperation separates him from them, and they gaze on at him like one would a Gestapo or KGB or Secret Service agent, dead fear)

No he will not be subjugated by this neo-fascist, former jar-head, mid-level, mid-texas, gesticulating bag of hyperbole.

he is ever defiant.

thoughts

rally cry for the youth

this generations protest song

yes young people! like a choir now, all together!

this is the litmus test

after all we have reputations to build

-----------------

what is protest culture?

what is youthful rebellion?

a calculated risk

no real threat to anybody at all

a way to put western civilizations collective mind at ease

through the pop cult

through the drop outs.

----------------------

----------------------

what if all prior notions of revolution were cast aside

what if all dead ideologies were just that?

dead?

what then?

can we conceive of a future?

or are we to be beholden to the decomposing corpse of our previous indiscretions like rats on a sinking ship

all the rot now flooding in

our lungs full of rancid milk

straight from the wolf's teat

shifting narrative

footsteps reverberate down barren avenues

still, quiet, and as maddening as a thousand untold genocides

a dead hum

cadence of footsteps

bataan death march

a dutiful dread consumes the...

(we are small vessels nodding off into the blue hue

as silent monoliths gaze off into manifest destiny

we are the problem children of the 21st century)

...owner

residue of past-lives coats brick and concrete enclosures

there once was something here

what exactly remains to be seen

to call it life is far too simple

perhaps trepidation is more appropriate

feel the delirium tremors like the biographies of dead writers

and the histories of fallen empires

ours is a base knowledge...

(careening around like rabid dogs

we sank our teeth into the soil

and passed our insecurities right to the land)

...of a haunted old farm house

cemeteries lie stacked up to ceiling

wood creaks and a million bits of dust come rushing up your nose

and you sneeze and you take it all in and can no longer differentiate between...

between what?

where does the horizon begin and...

(and soon the country withdrew

became an introverted homebody, wishing her boy would come home

and faded into the obscurity of grammar school text books and manicured lawns

no one saw much of the old gal in her final days

simply murmured "what a shame, what a shame"

when will that boy every learn

forgetting their own names)

..my body end?