You Don’t Know Anything About Nothing

You force-feed your trainees bullets and tell them they’re bad to eat. Then when their head dislodges itself, or they simply let their grey matter ingest lead, you cry and moan to hunt for where and when it went wrong. Or you just say it’s the world. But your desert must be lacking certain crucial notes pinned to the walls, the world is us and we are it. No comma, full pace.

No they…

Or you weep.

I praey that any and every ray of free-haired light are plucked from your pincers, because your enduring penchant for foulness is determinant of our continued failure. And that is one of the fabulous curses of our time my friend, but from what distant war-bunker does it source? I actually saw something about that on the news, but it was after the update on that new place that was opening. You should check that out! And afterward read '6 Psychological Reasons You’re Taking Things Too Personally’, it is efficient for the educated cranial-cavernous, shambling toward the next way to make you, you.

You bitter creature.

Full force fall face flat on the ashes of your reckless past, a veritable recipe for rocky sunsets on the other end of bombed out bridges, wherebehind whales sail or fall unbeknownst to you. And wherebehind horses of stone patterned in our indented continents ride. Yet you believe your morals are blessed, or that you hold the good of the World. A contrast-patterned thought too broad for you narrow-headed creeps. Instead it crosses you up, up and away. Very similarly to the crossing branches on your shady lawn. Too dim to spot the difference, because the sky looks blue, blue, blue. Here and here alone.

And god blesses You…

Broad as your bi-fold may be, headstrong fellow, I believe you’d gulp gas out a champagne glass.

You almost make me weep.

Toward those who blaze down the street, or to the cascades of streetlight-under-moonlight my hip pocket bears; don’t climb our ladders toward the ceiling, but toward yellow streaked sky. Don’t fight our muddied jigsaw puzzles because God told you to. Do not yowl war and battle the sun, bald and clad in tac-glasses, trying to save the world one pasty arm fold and scowl at a time. Naturally, Mr. Intuition chops such scalps till they’re flat and paced with scuff-marks.

Don’t again us turn to fuel, I’ll murmur it to myself.

Now I’m in my castle, hucking holy harpoons at you — I wish. My fallible farm axe is fresh, but I’ve yet to harvest haha; only dreaming of sickling crops. But you’re garbage anyway, so I can’t Love you. And my sand is a head-cushion, and my Post-Its are half buried. The dunes bathe my hair, keeping it gold; dripping soft light like I’m from the temple before the plane crashed. I breathe their air. Mr. Intuition barbers my du, and rags it in light. My war-bunker lays in France, and in Italy — the one with the turret on top. And they’ve been my resting places, and all hold their own beautiful antique blankets.

I have Waves of Wisdom, and I hear them too. Crashing like a Windows PC. Everything is wrong with me. Bless up.