Thirty seven percent
All of a sudden
Just like that
I’m wasting my life
Some days
Oysters
Box seats
Water to wine
A sense of completion
Then
Stifling my breath
Punching me in the chest
The sixty three percent left
The amount at which I am allowed
To breathe freely
Dirty cops
Scumbag governor
Scumbag everyone
No future
No plan
And I am one of the fortunates
The haves
I am wrestling with giving it all away
But that is the choice of a monk
I am a married man
With no foreseeable end
I am putting it all on black
For one go around
And praying that I lose
Everything
Lead paint
Aluminum pans
Plastic pipes
This is our big grande smoothie
Getting sold back to us
At a thirty seven percent upcharge
Keep the straw
You fucking jew
That’s what they’re thinking
My boss
My colleague
My friend
I won’t even remember
Once it’s over
Nothing is right for very long
Still sleepy from the full belly
And the organic French wine
Not even my gourmet coffee can save me
Losing touch
I should pray for a mugging
Or something that might remind me of reality
The police are watching
Sizing everyone up
Making big tinted cherry-picking towers
To watch us all from
Their big retirement party
If they make it
Will be drenched in my discontent
Sopping up my expensive green emissions
Spending my carbon points on hookers and strollers
A few things they can’t afford
On a cop’s salary
Not really bitter
Just savory and slightly rotten
If I wrote a song for the forgotten
It would sound like this:
I get the carpaccio
You get potatoes au gratin
Both of our appreciation
On a different side of picking cotton
Neither of us think too hard
About what goes into stitching
We judge each other on the style
And get right back to bitching
--
3.14.08
All of a sudden
Just like that
I’m wasting my life
Some days
Oysters
Box seats
Water to wine
A sense of completion
Then
Stifling my breath
Punching me in the chest
The sixty three percent left
The amount at which I am allowed
To breathe freely
Dirty cops
Scumbag governor
Scumbag everyone
No future
No plan
And I am one of the fortunates
The haves
I am wrestling with giving it all away
But that is the choice of a monk
I am a married man
With no foreseeable end
I am putting it all on black
For one go around
And praying that I lose
Everything
Lead paint
Aluminum pans
Plastic pipes
This is our big grande smoothie
Getting sold back to us
At a thirty seven percent upcharge
Keep the straw
You fucking jew
That’s what they’re thinking
My boss
My colleague
My friend
I won’t even remember
Once it’s over
Nothing is right for very long
Still sleepy from the full belly
And the organic French wine
Not even my gourmet coffee can save me
Losing touch
I should pray for a mugging
Or something that might remind me of reality
The police are watching
Sizing everyone up
Making big tinted cherry-picking towers
To watch us all from
Their big retirement party
If they make it
Will be drenched in my discontent
Sopping up my expensive green emissions
Spending my carbon points on hookers and strollers
A few things they can’t afford
On a cop’s salary
Not really bitter
Just savory and slightly rotten
If I wrote a song for the forgotten
It would sound like this:
I get the carpaccio
You get potatoes au gratin
Both of our appreciation
On a different side of picking cotton
Neither of us think too hard
About what goes into stitching
We judge each other on the style
And get right back to bitching
--
3.14.08
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