Deathmobiles

I once did a 3-month count of how many times I got cut off on the road by other drivers. Something like 70% of these incidents involved BMWs. This is why I drive a Saturn – to avoid all appearance of douchebaggery. That, and the great mileage.

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Image borrowed from starecat.com.

Rotting on the Inside

…or, how I learned I wasn’t in my 20s anymore.

Oh, the stillness of humanity – dreary and blah.
When the body decays, at that age when
alcohol-induced diseases eat away
at youthful, vibrant tissue,
cells now shrinking and crumbling.

The heart heart beats within my breast
stops. Jerks.
As if stunned by the harsh reality
bombarding its Lego fortress,
defeatable by mere spitball attacks
during kindergarten recess.

My mouth sends forth this breath,
stopping, wheezing, muffled
by the phlegm of blackening lungs.

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The living word

I don’t know why listening to poetry is as important as living it. Poetry works to a clock with only one hand – there is always some part of time relegating us to certain points of existences. Despite that, there is no where or when.