She got a small booty so i call her tina

Girl so bad her first name Osama
She been give good neck, last name bin llama
Assassinating precedent after precedent but never Obama
Don't give a fuck but she always do ya in the end like Tony Montana

enhanced interrogation/fourth of july

he lay dark-skinned and naked on a white floor,
stars pouring from eyes striped red across the inky navy field
of his vision.
those eyes closed. peace.

the door slammed open with a sudden bang, like fireworks
and bright light lit his hair and face up
like an entertainer on stage,
like an American Idol.

the star spangled banner whistled through the door,
through their straight teeth. they smiled wide and said
"we've got a treat for you, partner!
something hot, and honest!
nothing so honest and true
and American as apple pie."

and those good strong soldiers came and grabbed him with arms like football players,
and tied him down with the knots they learned as boy scouts.
and they pushed in a cafeteria lady's cart
and they joked about "mama's cooking."
and he thought at least it's not the water again. at least it's just a joke.

it was hot, honest American apple pie.
it was honestly hot, anyway. and they packed handful after
handful of hot, honest apple pie into his mouth and didn't stop
until his stomach was so hot and so honest
that he couldn't have lied about cutting down a cherry tree.

do you trust your government?

Do you trust your government?
I do! I do trust my government.
I trust my government to continue
the way it has been going.
That is, I trust my government
to have some difficulty in
maintaining a positive public opinion.
I trust my government to
vocally oppose racism and
gender and income inequality,
discrimination, poverty,
murder and war
and to persist in putting
the "institution" in that multifarous
institutional.
Most of all,
I trust my government to fail
to accomplish what
the people who make up
the government
believe is right.
And no, I'm not worried about
the newly elected
with their new ideas
changing my government
for the worse
to suit their agenda
because I trust
my government to be incapable even
of consistently accomplishing evil.

anxiety

I don't think they know (I trust them not to know)
I don't tell them, and I sure don't tell her.
I work hard to keep myself bound together, finger
page after page and I raise my cover against the rain
and I book before I crack up and break,
shatter and shake, rattle and quake no. wait
like the ground that embarrasses fate
let tears roll over and off, bourgeois water and gauche,
a socialist who knows only labor and cost.
standing shattered and blurry
on the corner of decision and hurry
on the corner of chaos and Division
on the corner of heartburn and excision.
The truth is that I've clammed up and quieted
the truth, that I'm violent and riotous
stupid and useless, rage to rule by ruthless
putrid abusive putative measures
I'm sure I hide inside my sweater
where I can't see or feel them. I worry
what I snort between my ignorant visions
in indecisive derision
at the pleasantries that escape inhibition
is like a dog biting a handful of provisions
I'm guaranteed to worsen by worrying my social position

an honest thief

it is a promise made and daily broken
to brake, and slow, and stop
and strip keys from their ring
and throw them haphazardly into
the wide open lock of the world.

to walk south
down the Pulaski skyline
that bourgeois revolution,
that polish caballero, my head holding ideas over it
like Hitler held tanks. That brazen defiance in the face of total
inadequacy. That American dream, that sleepy sneer.
That bridge that wasn't even new in 1930,
that bridge that couldn't do it's job when it was built.

to walk past that land of opportunity,
and to walk past Newark,
and to walk past Trenton,
and to walk past Camden.
and to walk past terror,
and addiction, and corruption,
and racism, and inequality,
and rape, and money,
and Patterson,

and find a field, dusty brown, no more green
in which to stagger and starve
and steal oneself
and live outside labor
finally an honest thief.

fifteen minute break

I declare and suspect
that you have never seen
such a beautiful sight
as sunlight filling globules
of gravity-stricken water
hovering like a ship in a bottle
three feet over my outstretched hands
for even this brief a moment in time.
I am a
big, sexy man
with
big, sexy hands
That snatch
this water-bottle out of the air as it falls.
The slosh inside slowly regains its faculties
Drips down the sides of the bottle
and settles back into the wave
I create walking down the path.
I tighten a bicep and curl
the bottle back into my line-of-vision
but the sight pales in comparison
To the taut, tanning skin of my heavy, heavy arms.
I sweat quietly, comfortably in the July hum
and suspect I am wasted inside,
as the air conditioning is wasted on my
massive, healthy bod draped in work cotton.
I am never too hot or too cold:
Ha-ha!
Yes,
I am a big, fat, muscular man.

millenial manifesto

i sit down all day at work, begging to scrape myself off my chair for a two minute walk to a twelve minute drive to lie down for four hours awake with a laptop on my chest followed by eight hours asleep with nothing on my mind. there is something wrong. this is not something that you can dispute. is my need to stand up and stretch my legs revolution? then i am born again in my adulthood: natural rebellion.

I am afraid, though, because I see that the rest of us are a fragile lock of glass. You can drop it in the keystone and watch the tumblrs unwind and unlock, discussion our rock against problems that probably won't stop - chief among them a ticking of a terrible clock that creaks towards hangover from the vocal treaty of low harmful garble on social media. We've had our fill of vigor and we're tired of vim this isn't the fifties the seventies or the sixties-we've figured out exactly how to effectively sin and now, well, we're simply not always interested.

We're meta. In terms of cool, we're better. You think your generation had swag? Think it was perfectly unique, subcultures coupled heroically like some lesser work of Shakespeare? The cliffnotes of your generation's swag fits in my girlfriend's handbag, youth. We bagged all your swag. We stole that shit or bought it from a thrift store or straight up made a better version ourselves. We took all the best parts of the brief history of American cool and now we wear them every day. Better, we know what they meant to you and they mean something similar to us, because we read about you and watched documentaries and learned how you thought. We especially learned where you made your mistakes and we’re avoiding them. You see us addicted to crack? You see us addicted to heroin? You see us on our college campuses getting shot by the national guard? Nah, you see us having a rad time at Occupy Wallstreet, half of us wilin' because we're drunk and high and the other wilin' because we're THERE doing HISTORY.

The funny thing is, we know our history so well that we're trapped in one of those hilariously wrong conceptions of time periods that comes with studying too much and seeing too little of reality: we see ourselves as a collected group. We see ourselves as a period of time. We see ourselves as a group of lines marked out of time, inevitably moving towards the construction of a decade's aesthetic. We're meta. We're meta as fuck. We have taken a step backwards and now we’re seeing a bigger picture. We’re seeing ourselves as we suppose others see us now and how time will probably see us. We’ve begun the self-fulfilling prophecy of youth in America.

Well, we thought so, anyway. Not to play the silly goose but to toss out a wild gander I suspect we can’t see the party for all the hipsters. Rather than the players we’re the audience watching ourselves, and out of the mess we’re the ones getting played. Sitting and waiting like a captive theatre audience, waiting for the dramatist’s tragedy to unfold, we forget that the story doesn’t write itself! Where’s our bildungsroman? Which one is our struggle? Is it war? Rape culture? Class struggle? The answer: there is none. We chase cool, and cool is made up.

Cool holds us together. Cool doesn’t exist. Since there's nothing holding us together, we're breakable. We’re the glass lock sitting in a solo cup of keystone; rip us out of the keystone and bang us against the hard wooden table of employment and all you’ve got is a bunch of broken, scattered shards. Realistically, we’re Milwaukee’s best, a roaring and shitty city with a high alcohol content. What’s left after the hangover? Just a town you don’t want to live in filled with people you don’t want to know.

You’re vexed, now. You’re upset. Cool doesn’t exist? Then what the fuck is a leather jacket? Shut up. Now, take the thirty-two year old hipster. Shit, take the twenty-eight year old hipster. These are people who should have fucking grown up by now and done something besides chasing what’s popular and redefining what makes cool. Why? Because when they grew older than twenty seven, they automatically became the antithesis of what’s cool. Look, don’t bother to argue. You know it’s as true as I do. Being young is cool. People who are old can’t fucking hang after a while. It’s just how things work. You may remember that creeping feeling of becoming a creep; that feeling is the slow and not-so-gentle feeling of becoming a person who supports themselves and later will support the weight of the next generation of youths. You become a creep because when you’re pulled off of the backs of the old and the next generation is piled on your back, the youth suspects your next move will be to drag them into employment to share your heavy load and therefore identifies you as their future potential oppressor. That’s where you lose your cool: when you become a future potential oppressor, as decided by the youth. That’s because we’re the youth and we build the cool. We tailor the cool to us and we keep it. You, old person, abuse and misuse and trick us into becoming like you and slowly we do. Under threat of starvation we get jobs. Under the onerous weight of 55 hour work weeks necessary at $17 an hour, we strive for promotion. Promotion means compliance. Promotion means forgetting your politics. Promotion means (eventually) corporate Stockholm Syndrome. And through all of this, the thing that keeps us going is the cool, until work becomes the focus of our lives. This usually occurs around 27. In the past, the cool has not faded, but rather has been replaced in importance by work, that thing in our society which gives you the right to be alive past the age of 27. Cool is replaced in importance but not memory; cool is the thing the older generations remember about their past, what keeps them together now that they’ve forgotten all the things they thought were important BACK IN THE DAY. Cool is what made the generations; cool is what kept them together.  

And that’s what’s going to work out for us, pretty soon, and then we won’t have our cool anymore, and then what will we have? Nothing. So we’re a pretty glass lock for now, floating in a glass of amber. And some of us sit wage slaves monday through friday and float on the weekends. And maybe later we’ll look back and wish we stretched our legs.

This is no heaven; that will be when everyone dies over the age of twenty seven. But that's a joke just like everything else it turns out there was no cool even in hell and the only thing left is writing the next book on the shelf for another generation that doesn't know the history of its self. but in the leg stretch there's still that thought best the one that makes me think maybe there's a hope yet and maybe it's not you but maybe it is so sit down and wait for me baby let's fit                                                 some thoughts in