Rich Stadler sucks.
Lenny and Timmy are in the corner shooting up over the collective gains of their universal mothers.
Rusty always tells it like it is.
Broken promises cannot be repaired when tears remain unwept and the dust of age settles in like cold oatmeal.
Hanging out in his big ass studio with our big ass ideas.
It all comes back to me in a flood of hand wringing distress.
I believed I was fearless until you appeared in my out of focus camera lens with your femme fatale girlfriend.
Suicide has cut us into new forms that no longer praise Jesus because what difference would it make when madness chips away at our plaster psyches like a sculptor whose hands shake from Parkinson’s.
Too many of us are frozen out from the scales of blind justice for the sole reason a jury of our peers is next to impossible to discover in a suburban landscape of stoic whore mongers and unfunny clowns.
Our phone calls remind me of another time when the day to day seemed easier to grasp and less obnoxious to maneuver through.
When Rich mentioned how I used to scratch my nuts and smell my fingers I knew he was a pathological piece of dispassionate shit that deserved to rot in his own passive aggressive tendencies toward community theater mediocrity.
Living in an artist colony is overrated when there are no creative sparks to speak of and the Milo Coffeehouse was the only honest to God sanctuary in a den of conniving Christian fundamentalists.