I’m supposed to have the answers,

but I don’t

and I don’t care.

Not sure I ever did,

have answers I mean;

I know I never cared.

I suppose it’s just a gift, I guess.

Sociopathic as it is.



and content

to live my own existence.

But the questions linger,

they sit and rot and purge

and there are no takers

for the harlot’s shitty handbasket

that we all have to deal with.

So I guess society forces participation,

not through some altruistic gesture,

nor through the open, giving hand;

I seek the answers now,

because of fists and shit-storms,

malignant cluster-fucks

and the certain knowledge

that I can give the world the one thing

that it might need

before I find myself a dirt patch to call my own.


I offer my hands,

whether by pen,

or by force,

or by work.

Make this world a little cleaner

than when I arrived.

This mess is all our fault, people.

Get your work clothes ready;

Monday’s comin’.


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