When we're high you say things like:
"Our reality is not a THING
but a RELATIONSHIP."
I repeat this, but louder
and putting emphasis on the wrong words.
I don't mind your philosophy
so long as you know we're individuals
and I get my own pillow after our
romp and laugh.
Other than that, I'm not an extremist.
When I remind you of this, your eyes
get shiny and lost
like you're taking inventory of all that's
absent in the world and present somewhere else.
I like your eyes
They tell me there's nothing to the past
and we're just lumping shit together.
We romp and laugh until tears come
to my eyes and I scream:
"Stop, stop, I don't want to be synchronic!"
And then you let me take my pillow
and retreat to my side of reality.
With a smile you let me settle.

Don't Let Capitalism Get you Down

I talked to my sister on the phone but cried half the time
we talked about being positive and making yourself do
things you wouldn't want to do.
"You should make friends," she said to the 12 year old
sniffling on the end.
I'm a fucking adult, I wanted to shout but didn't
"You're right."

Sometimes I feel like giving it all away and going on a
journey like that guy did. Eddie Vedder did the whole
soundtrack and I wouldn't mind living like that.
I don't tell people this.
Instead, I say. "What do things MEAN? And how do
they relate to me? Do I need THINGS?"
People nod thoughtfully.

"Don't feel guilty about consuming," my sister told me.
I do feel guilty. I'm supposed to. I think about the THINGS
and let it slip, that I want to give them all away.
There is silence on the other end.
It stresses me out. "Is there anything I do that's working
for the world?"
She doesn't understand the question.
"What am I doing here?"
She takes that to mean I'm defeated. "You just need to be
PROACTIVE."

I was given a book. Marx says you are at a disadvantage from
birth, any gain you make is at the expensive of some other poor
soul and capitalism isn't worth all the huzzah.
The book didn't tell me anything about my disengagement
from society and my own former consciousness.
"Yes," says Marx. "You are a consumer and you
should feel like a loser." I already knew that.

"You sound depressed," says my sister.
"I'm actually very happy," I say still crying. I am. "I'm just
thinking too much lately. I'll make friends."
"Good," she says too quickly. She's done with philosophy.
"Now get out of the house and treat yourself to something."

Behind horn-rimmed glasses
with a Camel Light between lips
stained the same red
as her cropped duster of a bob
Absolutely soulless
and knowing of it,
she arches her brows
as the non-marginal walk by. . .
muttering under heavy breath:
"fuckin' posers."
Because she still has to watch out for them
She doesn't know that she looks just like
Sally Jesse Raphael
and her friends are not going to be the ones
to tell her. They'll let her mother.
"Dear, those glasses look so. . . severe
on you."
Under her gravel tracked breath
she'll say: "fuck off, mom."
Then take a fatal drag fogging up
the windows covering
her dull mud brown eyes

	Fatboy Slim - Demons .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

What a Young Man Learns from KW

Kanye said, "Why don't we play something these hoes would like."
and I think that's thoughtful of him
'Cause you know hoes, bitches and shorties,
they like to dance
they all shake ass and give good head
And Mr. West's concerns don't just stop there,
like: "Is it raining hard enough on them bitches?"
"What can I do to make it rain on them bitches?"
"Can I do more?"
and I think that's fair.
He doesn't want a gold digger
which makes sense 'cause we know
hoes bitches and shorties like money
and everybody knows the only way you give
a girl some money
is you throw dolla dolla bills at her
after drenching her with cryst-all.
It sticks better.

It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp

Cause at night, I was 'tasty' or 'bitch'. . .
but my real name is Carolina,
said a beautiful girl
almond eyes,
brown skin, wavy hair
never once
fully
realizing her potential
I didn't like being in
jail
for some dick-head
said a lonely girl
named Carolina

It must be hard, I told my husband,
for Milton Bradley to market
those same games.
Every year, a new commercial for
Monopoly.
Family Fun Night?
What about fathers who must be banker?
Mothers who shout from the kitchen:
"Give your sister her hotel back!"
My husband says that these issue
might just be mine. . . only.
I think it must be hard though.
Making a purse out of sows ear,
is what my mom would call it.

Things disturb me

my habit today is
watching
train wrecks

I don't even say
a thing
when they derail