For years I tried to start smoking, scurrying out before theme parties: Bad Taste Ball, Red Light, Pajammy Jam—to pick up Pall Malls, Only to find the shreds of tobacco slipping past my lips. Tonight, some fifteen years later, I rushed out for a walk, alone, Minus wife, kids, mother-in-law, Left a flat cauldron of …
Do your push ups in the sun, little one. Still spastic, plastic, After all these millennia. We rule the school now! Yet, We’re as big as we’ll ever be. You still have a chance, to dance To pulverize our little bones In your jaws of life.
The final fleeting days, of the dying year, most long for sweatpants. Preserve comfort. Hide side fat. Fashion. At the mall, in this agonizing transition, wear leather ones. They have them now. They foster tranquility and couture. They show you haven’t given up on it all. Not yet.
Eat a burrito In the hot sun In a Datsun Alone On a Sunday Not a Phunday Taste the waste Of your life With each bite In paradise You got hair plugs Waxed your chest Invested so much In yourself But for what?
