And there are no words. Except for these words and these words are not proving to be of much comfort.
I’m not a carpenter. I am just a person. A person who is feeling equal amounts shame and disgust for whatever it is they’re unbecoming. Its Kafkaesque this metamorphosis from person to bug to something I cannot even recognize or reconcile lying next to any longer.
You were brilliant and you were going to save me. Until I realized I needed to do my own saving and Lifesavers are only worth sucking when they’re cherry flavored or maybe coconut if you’re in that kind of mood.
Do you remember Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum? I still can recall the Friendly Drugstore on Mayfield Road in South Euclid. This was before CVS and Walgreens bled the life out of what a family drugstore actually was. A place you felt comfortable going to when you needed a quick pick me up and to see a familiar face.
I miss Powerhouse candy bars. I miss asking you what time it is and you giving me some made up answer because you always knew I could care less what time it really was.
I’m feeling like complete crap. I am tired of being called out on the carpet for dreams that have turned into dried flowers pressed in a book like the Bible but far less bloody or compelling.
One word will hopefully lead to the next and then to the next and before you know it you’ve crossed a bridge and a poem is nearly completed.
I’m not a patriot. I am just a person who would go live in another country if I had the money and the wherewithal to pick myself up and get the heck out of Dodge. America the Beautiful keeps going on and on about its special brand of exceptionalism when all I see are a bunch of translucent hipsters cozying up to whatever is convenient at that particular moment as mediocrity rains down upon them like Froyo and fifty shades of vomit.