My Cursed World -or- Why Freedom Really Is Free

Soldier, Soldier
Take heed
Your days are numbered and your enemies freed
Freed to decapitate and destroy
Why won't you acknowledge the culinary specialist?
She is the giver of life
She ensures I will not turn into a giant fucking fat ass
A behemoth inheriting the sands of knowledge

I feel I am a failure
i am nothing and i am so, so small and i
i cower in fear of a god i neither accept nor deny
i simply exist so, congrats on the whole self-awareness thing
you coward

Show yourself! We know?


You made it and you can destroy it but you'd rather watch us carry out the death sentence.

You wear a sweater vest, just like me, because you have a rotund belly and you believe, just like me, that the sweater vest will provide adequate padding to convince those around you that you are not fat. You fat liar. You fat phony, fat hippopotamus, fat talk show host.

So we understand why we bulk up!!! We love to bulk up 'cause the muscles = success. That's your Darwinism at work.

Say, why don't muscles = intelligence? 'Cause we don't get everything. We get what we get. And then you die. And that's sad for your family and friends and spouse. But they learn to pick up the pieces and walk toward the mirage. Cool, clear, crisp water to quench your thirst.

Hydrate and live!!! Hydrate and live!!!

You'll love being a star.

Embrace your fate, which I can assure you is death

Granite-gray skin flanks a silk cut
Seagulls soar toward the sun-kissed sky
While children grieve over tumbling ice cream
While I shuffle through the sea

We know the price of freedom
The great white knows the price of acquiescence
Girls frolic and boys posture
Women sunbathe and men posture

Give away your lifestyle and give away
The sobriety and the serenity
And give away the sanity and reason
They never fit in your shoes

Give away your love to the
Highest bidder because she expects
The ends to justify the long,
Long journey into nowhere

Every three seconds I fantasize and
I cannot stop because I love to imagine
The feeling of your lips on the places
I do not dare expose for fear of penultimate failure

Carve and chisel and time expedites
And the wind and sea ruin me and my
Ego cannot handle what God so desperately
commands

This is why
Why we die
Why we pass away

This is why we unfold
Why we unfurl
Why we
refuse to believe

Summer orange and slip-on sneakers
Pacify my soul and I humbly accept
Your judgment
You are the king of everything
You are the king of nothing

I Know a Funny Story!

"Who are you?" "I am God" "Why are you sitting in my basement?" "Would you prefer I stand?" "No, not really."

God is wearing a sweater vest. He is handsome. He seems old. I believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that He is God.

"Why are you here?" "Because you needed me to be here." "I did?" "I wouldn't lie." "No, I suppose you wouldn't." 

God is sitting in my basement because my basement is filled with bodies, the bodies of the people I convinced to follow me because I am Christ. They are weak, and I am a very good liar. I have always been a great liar, a world-class liar. I thought, for a time, that I was the God of lying. I used to think there was no God, but now I hope there are multiple Gods, even though I'm certain there is only one. These people are staring at me. Fuck.

"What do you want me to do?" "I think you should tell them the truth." "What's the truth?"

God looks through me. He is handsome, yet He seems so old. He is God.

"The truth is the fear you feel when you are trying to fall asleep. The truth is the woman who wants you to pick her up in a dive bar. She lusts for you, but she resents you. She knows you can't make her happy. The truth is the dog scratching at the front door. The truth is him."

He points at a boy, huddled next to a chair. The boy and his mother love me, because I made him and I made her believe.

"The truth is the word that erases war, the word that doesn't exist. The truth is your mother. The truth is your mother's rapist, the man who made you. The truth is you in your mother's womb. The truth is the condom in your dresser drawer, unused. The truth is ... " "The truth is whatever I need it to be?

God is unhappy.

"THE TRUTH IS YOU. YOU ARE THE TRUTH. YOU ARE THE REASON THEIR HEARTS BEAT AND THEIR MINDS REEL AND THEIR LUNGS BREATHE. THE TRUTH IS HIM!"

He points at the boy, and I believe.

"The truth is the world I created, the pain and the love and the suffering and the sophisticated hipster sipping a martini. The truth is Me, and you, and him."

He points at the boy.

"The truth is the boy, Bobby. The truth is the little boy. The truth is the little boy."

I look at God's finger pointing at the little boy, the way a dog looks at its master's finger and not at the object. I am a lapdog. I am a disobedient dog in a basement in Reno.