It seems all is lost, the ring is full of despair,
When "Real American" begins to pulse through the air.
You strut down the aisle, so noble and perky,
You sport a dashing sanchez, and skin of jerky.
Thine pecks rival the craftsmanship of Mt. Rushmore,
Yes, it's you, Mr. America, who's come through the door.
Born to defend American prosperity and fun,
And also the savior of those with two legs, minus one.
You shake a finger at any evil that threatens us,
And defeated a lie-detector in the face of prejudice.

Matthew McConaughey, you're so sweet.
Like a tasty butter dish I can't wait to eat.
24 years old, I finally think I'm ready,
So take me like The Whispers, and we can rock steady.
Critics might dis, call you a pussy, and make fun,
But I've seen you slay dragons, and plan a wedding for J-Lo's big bum!
Eyes so blue, shirt so tight, pretty mouth so full of promise,
Don't deny our love anymore, you hulking Aryan adonis.
We'll meet at a secret spot, and I'll braid your silken hairs.
And you'll charge ahead carefree as I cry, "But I poop from there!"

So, we all know he's Hitler's son. But should he really be walking around like this?

All these sad people crowd around and tip and toss and tip and toss 'em back. Humid with desperation, like trying to carve your way through melancholy green cheese, and I force feed it all to myself in a wild grab at feeling better. Fat girls dress themselves in low-cut shirts with the hope that there is at least one man in the world who is both sincere and enamored with massive breasts. All these self-fashioned fags and emo rockers gawk at ridiculous acrylic messes tacked to tar-stained walls, and primp and prep themselves to take over when the older idiots finally give way.

In the back of my head there's a memory of a church. Its ceiling had a picture of God's angels. I think it was a flock of seraphs, if seraphs travel in flocks. "Six wings, many eyes." I was young when I lived this-- too young to be thinking things like, "Christ! Those fucking angels are weird looking!"

What would you have done,
Two in the morning, exhausted
And nearing the end
Of a ten-hour drive, when a car
Pulls directly behind with
Its signal on, wanting you to pull over
And suddenly you find yourself
Idling on the highway’s shoulder
Enchanted by an old-model
Beige minivan
In your headlights in the middle
Of nowhere, and before you can think
About what’s going on, there’s two Mexicans
Standing at your driver-side window
Beneath which your girlfriend
Is trying to drag herself
From sleep and understand the situation.

We all keep certain secrets in great green glass jars upon our respective shelves; some have big secrets, and others have smaller ones that are more for show than anything else. A guest in someone's life should know that it is considered impolite to peer at the contents of another person’s memories without permission. Looking on with clumsy stranger eyes at the swirling fog of a celebrated era now past, or the reminiscence of a love so desperately clung to, is a far greater faux pas than insulting their beliefs, or spilling wine on their rug.

I have had what you may call a "hard life". While things go well for some, there is always an unheard few that face more and more obstacles every day. Like the world is karmically predisposed to bitch-slap us every time we try to do something we care about. Some may call it "bad luck" or a "hard life", but it's the only life I've ever known.
I build things up; but just when I'm about to see the light of day, something always pushes me back down and takes it all away. The world is just "out to get me".

Sometimes I wish, today being one of those times, that I were the human embodiment of an explosion waiting to happen; a peculiar dynamic of chemistry and physics that would allow me to convert the whole of my body into a highly volatile substance capable of generating an explosion equal to that of my mass. A human time bomb.