Franks rather large potato.

I'll start setting traps and spearing squirrels and birds with my bare hands before I succumb to all this doom and gloom economy crisis. I know all about it, research it everyday. But doom and gloom is a monstrous beast of a baby born from twisted rumors, speculation, gossip, feeling better or bigger than the one you're handing out advice too.
Get out of my way, I've got life to do.
And someone once tried to put a sick, hopeless thought into my head.
Over and over again.
- no matter how much you try, you never really succeed.
- everyone is out to get you.
- everyone is lying.
- no point in writing because WW III is right around the corner.

If that's the case then how have we come this far? How does anyone hook up and fall in love? How has our civilization evolved, at all? And how has anything been published, ever, while world war is always present?

It's dark and let me tell you why.

It's because the sun went down in your world. And for one moment the darkness lasted forever to you, and there were many times when you gave up and curled up and the goose bumps tore your skin off. Hiding is not the answer, though.
Bring it in and reel it in like the monster it is, pull, dig in your heels, chew your pipe... fucking reel hard! Pull up! There it is.. teeth and eyes and ears all on you..

It laughs.

All your favorite moments.
Best friends
and fucks
and toys
and all those little moments They told you to keep close,
near
failed you.

The only real way to kill your darkness
is to be darker than the darkness itself.
Stalk it.
Hunt it.
Go where it won't go.
Harden yourself.
Learn to outsmart the bumps in the road.
And when you rise..
Push down your thumbs into its eyes.
And don't forget to laugh.

I have something to tell you

You're going to die. Even if you try really hard.
You're death is on its way, right now. Its standing in front of you. And behind you and beside you and at places you've been and will go. You're not alone.

Don't tell me anymore that you have no future. Of course you do. You're going to die someday. One day you'll make us all proud and die.
It's all we ever wanted for you. Maybe you can die as a hero. We can even help you with that. We would like that for you.
But, please don't give up now just because you now know you're a goner.
Keep at 'er, buddy. In fact, gather steam and barrel on strong with your accomplishment. Realize at least most of your dreams. Become a great man. A great philanthropist and husband and father.
It'll make it that much better...your end for us.

Bars and then some.

No, I don't mean pubs or clubs where you feel safe amongst the likes. I'm talking about bars, dark bars with forgottens in the back like those Great War lost.
So, bring out the dead.
The woman behind the bar is tough as nails. Like she's Shotgun Maud and pumps that fucker with one hand and counts the bodies with a finger writing in the air on the other.
Avoid eye contact.
Unless you think you can talk your way out of being boot stomped, scalped, robbed, stabbed six hundred times. Yeah, they're watching you, staring.
Don't return the gesture.
Fight it if you have to. Don't smile. Keep your head down, sure. Or watch one of the TVs, but even then, don't root for anything or anyone. You'd be better off moving to the back with the forgottens? Wrong again. They're the worst. You'll slowly melt. You'll be filled with a false safety net because it's dark and quiet.
They're standing behind you.
Pretend to ignore them but have amazing eyes in the back of your head. They're out for your brains. Pale as ghosts and wearing their work cloths from twenty years past. Terrible wrinkles and white iris'. Tongues out. Pawing at the air. All this while sitting there, lost in the trenches.
Watch for bayonets.
Shotgun Maud appears beside you with your unordered beer. That's the way it goes. The undead here move you to the light, where the VLT's seem to be the only things ignoring you. They all seem to want to talk. Rubbing their hands together. Finishing the drinks.
Be prepared to bolt.
A fight breaks out next to you. It's over drugs and a girl and words that crash landed on the recipient. The fight spills onto your table. Someones getting boot stomped, punched over and over next to you. Maud gets ready. The rest of the bar is a waiting frenzy.
Your eyes will burn.
Three flashes and Maud is drawing a six in the air with that hand. A man in the corner is stuffing cigarette butts in his pockets. The great war ones stir. Out come the bayonettes. Out come the dead.

Let's roll.

I'll tell you one thing about disgust. It's the look a young mother gave me when a severely drunken native with a fifth of Listerine in his hand bumped the stroller in the aisle of the train. The look also said "you got my back, right?"

Yeah, sure. I'm on it. I'm watching him. He's careful now. He has a sudden flash of disgust on his own. He's disgusted of himself, for a moment.

Everybody's watching him. They want to. It's great because we're all so much better. It'd be really neat if he fell between the space separating the train and the platform. If his head was severed. If out of nowhere a smaller, drunker native came and scooped up the fifth of Listerine as it tumbled, still in the air. He'd catch it like he's just robbed a home run ball. We'd all chuckle even after the severed head. We'd tell stories of it for months, years.

We'll just sit on the train ignoring this mad, drunken native. Some of us want to kill him. And when he leaves we're all relieved. This ignorant wave of disgust and hatred is so hard for us to bare.

And I feel like this barn

Just standing around like I was built there. Waiting in time because no one has ever waited for time, and survived. Elements, as they may be, gang up; wind with grains from the Sahara and the strongest giant drops of acid rain smashing caressingly against my tired, old, facia. The welcome mat says we come. And they come... and go.
Children picking off the small flecks of paint. The wind shaking. Old, I Am.

I feel like that when I don't care.
Seeing it everyday. The same old advancing swarm.
Always smoking and clawing at everything.
A great mass of dark cloaked men and women hiding
behind our day.
Throwing themselves at us.
I won't budge.
There is certain death there.
There is friction. There is decay.
The latter falls off. The roof blows away.
Small children have large heads
impessionable
beasts.
Yet the wind blows them
coming from lies on the tube
it always reaches
especially the poor.
I stand and watch the best of us and the weakest,
come up and fall down.

Sometimes I feel like a tornado.

At first calm. Then a little breeze pushes things around making them all seem clear. An electrical storm that lasts and lasts. The biggest of the darkest clouds stuck in its own mad frenzy. Gathering up energy and enveloping everything in the night. Taking even the dark of the midnight sky. Blowing a constant gust exhaust. Growing into a monster that surly will rip morning to pieces.

It's my sandwich meat that's gone bad prematurely.
It's the lack of proper mayonnaise.
It's the cab fare to work and the thirty mile long train and the meter running and the grinning face in the rear view.
It's this dusty place again.
The false heroes.
The new victims.
It's my phone company with their large paws and
all the automated voices
customer service like only I could dream it.
It's the guy who asks how your mother is coping twenty times a day and drop in next time for a visit.
I hate visits.
I've never hated them more than I do at this moment, as a matter of fact.
It's the small talk, like a dull rusty spoon digging at my intelligence.
It's the guy who pronounces it Hy-tachi and who thinks the cure for those that bitch and moan is whisky.
It's those that never cease to bitch and moan.
It's those riddled with ignorance.
It all just spirals.