8.26.17

My idea of paradise

is a room full of bastards

just like me

spilling out the contents

of our fetid minds,

piling between us the

unseemly habits that to others

make us inhuman,

but that to us

are as natural as blinking.

We would compile

our debaucheries into

a literary compendium

and release it like

Britannica into

the wild earth,

the blind and wild and

unsuspecting population.

It wouldn’t matter at all.

No one fucking reads,

anyway.

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Written at 4:53 in the afternoon, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. It is a gobsmacking day. There are birds singing. There is a light wind. There is sunshine, and soon there will be liquor and two men on a television screen beating the shit out of each other.