really good intuition makes you lazy

where we'd all like to be (no?)

i am happy Right Now
i dont know How or What
swirl of wind or mind 

or leg or finger 

-------- 

known unknowns

unknown unknowns 

worry not me

something i edited on 3/14/10 but wrote on 1/29/08

[ed. - i readily admit that this is possibly a cheap, weak way out of my promise yesterday to produce a publishable piece a day, but, at the same time maintain the equal possibility that this is just as valid a contribution as it is new in a narrow but productive way, as well as on point with contemporary self and social concerns. so i guess the administrative question raised on this first day is whether moving a piece from draft to published counts. put that way, the answer is clear. yes. without a doubt. based on previously articulated standards defining 'progress' with a large amount of respect paid to quality, against the power of quantity]

I feel such clear and distinct misanthropy. It flows wildly, rampantly, persistently. Though it is not new. it has been here before, to be sure. And after it leaves, it shall return again. There is no end in sight.

A light shines somewhere. Though, where I do not know: it could have ancient origins and like light from the very earliest moments of the universe, just be reaching us now; or it could emanate from present possibility, the eternal ability for us to jump the course, laying waste to our habits and revolutionize ourselves, our community, rip the status quo to shreds; or it could reside in the future and we're simply a couple generations too early: we all must trudge on, ignoring the spoilers, accepting the good we can do on the smallest of levels, enduring the disagreement and pervasive petty squabbling; or it could be an asteroid, a false positive, and imminent death.

Apathy joins the party. But he must not be in the same room as Misanthropy. Neither diminishes in any noticeable fashion. They accommodate one another; a perfectly destructive assimilation. I don't care which one is true. I don't care if they're all wrong. If the light itself doesn't exist in any manner: positive or negative; it's a sheer product of my human artillery: brain, optical nerves. Like fucking colors. They need us to exist.

I want to deal with non-human contingencies, realms outside human creation. I'm with Hamlet on this one: "man delights not me." I'm sick of money, of big buildings (metaphorical and commercial ), of lies, of fear, of homogeneity, of hurrying, of barriers, of not enjoying pretty much everything, and being distracted from the life i would love...making that life a reality.

This whole contract with government where I give up a little of my freedom so that I can gain the advantages flowing from living in society: order, specialization, recreational time; I'm really losing interest in holding up my end of the bargain.

What is the most fundamental part of living in society, within communities?

Communicating well. This endows a responsibility on members to have this knowledge, as well as act on it. We must not only know it, we must recognize through action and actually do it. Not to be lost in the picture here is an important act of reflection: criticizing and then removing those hindrances to honest, open dialogue.

It is often held up as a virtue that one who respects others opinions, and more specifically their ability to believe differently, is integral to communicating well. Respecting the differences of the Other. And this seems entirely counter-intuitive to me. Of course, we're all not the same person. We are each different in the way our particulars manifest themselves, but we share the general schema of particulars, the different categories. It is a difference of degree. If honest, open dialogue is needed: how can we justify removing such a general group of statements as beliefs from the mix? It seems right to apply the tag of "universal human good questions" to "beliefs", for really what is a belief other than an individual's "conclusion" (and i use that word loosely) answering the question: How is a human life best lived? For it would certainly be an outrageous concept that anyone would live their life in any way other than the one they deem the best for a human to live, no? Though I guess perhaps no one is perfect, No One can live in perfectly congruent accordance with standards of value (self-derived or otherwise)? But, all the same, it seems entirely ridiculous that one would live so far outside the spectrum of the standard and that this would still remain as the standard. It seems that if one lived so far out of whack with what is claimed by the standard, then perhaps self-reflection is needed to sort it out and decide what is the standard that is actually ruling and contributing to reality, interacting with wills external to my own: "I may claim to myself and others that it is one thing, but doesn't this clear fissure prove otherwise? How can I claim to value x so greatly on the one hand, but restrict if from ever manifesting itself in action by walking towards y and only groping at x? Perhaps, I value this y, the end my actions proves out, and not the end I thought I sought in my mind."

Maybe that is too black and white. Or too naive. It isn't that people aren't aware of the parallel, crashing standards. Or are aware of one and not the other. It's that they don't recognize the conflict. They have no idea that they engage in a self-negating cycle. That they act towards one end for a period of time. Then towards another. And that these aren't parallel, never-meeting-except-at-the-finish line lines, but, sadly, tragically, inextricable from one another. Ripping the other to shreds while building itself with glorious intentions. And then powerlessly getting ravaged by the other. Neither counterwilling, neither protesting. They have no idea for of course the courses of actions themselves exist in a vacuum; they are human dependent, human created. They require a director, and not an autonomous one at that, an autopilot suffices. They don't know the difference, they are intangible, puppet concepts. So, the onus is on the director to realize the conflict and adjust. But he doesn't. He doesn't look inside. He wanders about aimlessly, motivated by emotion and whim. He feels the pain of the battle raging within, and is unable to know that not only is he the only who could stop it but that there is a conflict worth fighting at all. That Yorke’s “two colors” reside inside his head. He sits contentedly in pools of corrosive, quickly consequential unknown knowns.

So, if we maintain that communication is the most basic tool for social success, then an even more fundamental need arises towards that end: self-reflection

And what of language, that most basic building block of communication? How does it affect comm that words have become so detached from any sort of "static" meaning, bending stretching, each time in another direction, under the auspices of another general, adifferent set of troops with dreams of conquering lands wholly unfamiliar to previous generations of usage.

metamethodicality (on method) (part one)

It has to be methodical too. so far, It (this partially-in-formation, always-in-formulation, fulfilled writing capacity) has been riding a spontaneous wave while slowly becoming more methodical, more consistent. but it's time that a more rigid framework come into play within which the in-the-moment, anti-artifice can still exist. i guess the methodical here is modifying the spontaneity, really, i don't think i have thought about this in ages. great to come back to it. being methodical, disciplined is

so, this is just a way of calling myself out "publicly", but really only to myself as i do not believe there are any people who think to themselves "hmm, i wonder what's goin on at methodical spontaneity...i'm gonna type it into my web address whiteness and see what steve's written." and this isnt bitterness over lack of readership. i don't think that the people who know about it read on their own, and of course i can't know about the people who i dont know, whether they know about it, via the deep dark recesses of my facebook profile. but this is assuming quite a bit and, importantly, ignoring the effects of the confessionalism of my writing which would serve as a possible deterrent against people reaching out and commenting on it. this "commenting on it" is the only real way i would know if anyone reads this on their own, without a link sent by me. having said this, a clarification is probably necessary due to the glaring fact that the tone and words chosen indicate a perceived audience. and there most definitely is, but only by virtue of the nature of this blogging medium.

the blog gave me the ability to have a concrete place where i could save, work on drafts while in progress, and then put them out into some different, more official or...final place, when the piece has reached a level of self-satisfaction that i deem it fit to be seen by another. i don't think this social relationship is problematic, diluting my efforts. i almost never keep something as a draft if i am happy with it, meaning...nothing is too personal. if ive written about a feeling, a dream, a fear, a person, and i think it is quality, something im proud of, then it gets published. occasionally, ill get nervous about a particular piece, but in the end i usually prevail, the piece gets republished.

so, i'm going to write at least one publishable piece a day, one creation, riff, whatever, that i value and define as 'done' (a dynamic, and not necessarily stereotypical definition, to be sure; ) - and this does not count.

(after writing this, it seems necessary to at some soon, future time write down the philosophy of art represented in my poetic style and subjects. ill say this: i like to think i am following in the spirit of henry miller and his subjective embrace with perhaps a dash or three more fictionalizations, like, combining two, true but distinct events because they complement each other and do not contradict. also, my style is way more abstract. anyways, another time.)

(another interesting question for another time: how necessary is this perceived audience? could i write merely for myself? can i even come close to knowing if and how this perceived audience is a cause and not a more inane than meaningful environmental accompaniment? is it still fun to think on? yes.)

ive been walking around
in the halls of your mind
while you wander wondering
occasionally, frequently
smiling my way

and that smile
its a wonder i dont
crumble and break
my heart palpably pangs

our string of moments
alternating
saturation and scattered
brings the sweet apple flesh
and then turns a bruised low brown

then youre testing my memory
while your feet keep your indian knees
from busting loose their gird

your bottom lip turns
red from your teeth
and you're laughing
while asking me

what was that dream?
who was that man?
why was he pointing at me?

my lips start to part
the corners rise up
my teeth show some skin
and laughter trumpets
well worn melodies
of hope and renewal
and faith in a beating heart

for i have forgotten
the details you lay out before us
like unwished on wishbones
and you calm down
as if my perfect memory
could cause detonation, decay

but im just spinning my yarn
some facts try, some lie
there is a well up of tar
ill probably fall down there and fry
in the raw sunbeams of your eyes

drought follows rain
and i dont know what i know
except the dense little pebble of us
that can never never go

she pulled out the fresh wood as
it called up black and white memories
the wood smelled of pine and wisdom.
she pulled out a hammer and nails
from underneath her bed.

she made a large rectangle
from the pine, and
she picked up the first nail,
grasped the hammer,
squeezing the handle;
she held them both there for a while,
squeezing the handle
until her tips went white.
she stood staring
at the dormant door
leading only to her carpet.

she heard a voice call, she thinks.
her stomach churned, dropped.
she laughed at habit,
hysterically
crying.
the blue skies or rain litmus test
was a rainbow and she knew
only that she loved it
she loved her door too much
to let it sit there
leading nowhere
keeping her there
staring into carpet

she sat indian style inside her door,
arms behind head and
forming two acute angles
around her eager ears.

her fingers locked together
behind her head.
the hammer and nails crossed,
hands holding each other
and hammer and nail.
she exhaled deeply
standing outside the unnailed door,
looking down into it

she caught herself in the mirror and smiled;
it was the greatest smile she ever received:

she got down on her knees,
put her hair up,
lined up the first nail,
raised the hammer,
and pounded it down,
tasted oxygen for the first time

each nail easier than the last,
like the story goes . . .
a good new groove needs to become;
prefabrications are shackles.
she sweat, she bled, she cracked a fingernail . . .
she hammered the last nail into place

a nirvanic headrush filled
as she pulled herself up,
simultaneous with the doors erection.
she stood it up in the middle of her room,
and realized she had finished before she had finished

she'd already walked through.

do muses go for muses?

sunshine floods vestibules

when you plead:

nonono
STOP
my ribs are gonna pop out n stab you
my throat is going to leap out and leave me

please please
stop making me laugh
my esophagus is lined with mines
wired all the way to my heart
ill blow out my speakers
ill go deaf for days

there is no lim
it on who you
can be with me

smeared
,
flushed
,
composed

. . .

supreme court justices, supreme court clerks, and stand up comedians

i just saw the movie 'funny people'. i just read various supreme court related wikipedia entries.

in the movie 'funny people', i realized the more successful a comedian gets, the more he relies on others to produce material. i understand how more daily comedians, i.e. conan, letterman, etc, have a staff of writers backing them, but just in general it kind of surprises me, this reliance on others for bits.

along the same lines, i was reading the wikipedia entry on harry blackmun. fascinating guy. started off very conservative then becoming more and more liberal as it relates to 'unenumerated individual rights' post- roe v. wade in which he penned the majority opinion. anyways, the relation here is that he had probably the most liberal stance with respect to his clerks writing his opinions. in a few key examples, dissents in planned parenthood v. casey and bowers v. hardwick, his clerks were given control out of respect for their effective arguments and passion for the particular point of law at stake. granted, he must have agreed with the direction in order to to cede that kind of control and thne put his name on it, but, still...i think it's at least interesting to note not only how these disparate professions are similar, but to show the amalgamated community that goes into making each of us as individuals, even those at the top of their game.

on borrowing and lending ii

wrote a little bit on this a little while back. it's a riff off of the opening line to the second track off the antlers' 'hospice' (its the first track with lyrics):

i wish that i had known in that first minute we met the unpayable debt that i owed you

the previous writing focused more on the notion of this unpayable debt and what it entails in the light of the overall human condition.experience.whathaveyou. ... just caught them again tonight, and beautifully enough they opened with 'kettering' which i had never seen live before. listened to it in various live forms since the end of the show before stumbling across the laundromatinee video that i had dug so much before. anyways, probably five listens later now, i have more thoughts on this song.

. . .
struck most by the 'wish' that sets the time of the narrators singing of the song wayyy after the fact as part of a reminiscence. and this is obvious enough; in and of itself, it is nothing. however, situating the wish in the context of a first meeting and an unknowable therefore unpayable debt is heavy. the debt is unpayable for a couple of reasons. most importantly, this is not a financial debt, this is not a debt fit for a ledger. this is not a debt that one expects to be repaid. this is not a debt that carries a necessarily knowing creditor. its a psychic debt, its an emotional debt. this is not a debt that can be repaid in any clear, crisp manner. but the narrator here wants transcendence. he wants to be able to preemptively know how he will be changed. perhaps in order to give this other their most just treatment, their repayment. perhaps for some other reason.

since this is impossible, for him to go back and know in the first minute he met her, the real importance seems to lie not in the looking back but in the projecting forward. the statement can't be seen as merely setting the tone for 'kettering'; it sets the tone for and reflects on the entirety of 'hospice' yet to come. so at the same time that the narrator is looking back, we the listener are planted firmly at the beginning of his tale, placed in the shoes he'd like to be in. we are at the beginning unknowing and in this beginning stage much closer to not being impotent to knowing the debt owed. as all art worth it's name, the value of 'kettering' is in the story's pointing towards our own future course of action, moving us towards living a better (in this case) more conscientious life. fundamentally, im arguing that the point of the song is to consider how knowing about such unpayable debts, really feeling the desire to have known it, how does this knowledge change the narrator as he lives into the future? how does such a contemplation change us? these are the same questions, tho, for he is us. do we live more conscientiously, trying to know and acknowledge through reciprocal action the little and big kindness' received?

the resolution of this question is found mixed in with the drywall but also all over the facade, all the way up at the towering peak; there isn't one place that houses the answer to the most prominent question flowing from this isolated, opening line: what is the specific unpayable debt that motivated the line? i dont feel equipped to break this down or reduce it to one shining sentence. but maybe i can answer this in a sideways manner by addressing an issue raised above. namely, whether the debt is unpayable because the creditor here, the girl, is dead when he realized the debt owed. however, i do think that the creditor in this case could indeed be the narrator since the credit extended, the favor done, is, i think, executed unknowingly by the girl. but thats a total guess.

either way, the fact that she's dead when he gains knowledge of this tremendous debt controls; it doesnt matter whether she knew it or didnt know it while living. she's no longer living and the debt cannot be repaid to her (if indeed such debts can be repaid which is debatable and has been fodder for the initial post on this song). the narrator can go forward, casting himself out into the world with compassion and empathy for others and in this way perhaps repay the debt to the universe. though, as far as the individual woman who profoundly affected him, he knows only wisps of memories, he knows only yearning. this is the point, i think. synthesizing this looking back with the looking forward, he, we, can go forward knowing about these unpayable debts occupying perhaps permanently negated space, and live with sincerity towards knowing other people, towards knowing the constant empathy flowing into us and infinite store of empathy within our every step, finger tip, glance, synapse.

in the morning
ill wake up n walk
feel the cold fill every atom
ascending, looking
to see if plants are growing
to wander free for a moment
to see how much sun it takes to burn
when the underground is home


and then ill go back to bed
and then ill go to work
and then ill go back to bed
and then ill go to work
and you will laugh with me
and you will never know me
just like i will never know you
but neither of us will know the difference

jack pours a glass of water from the refrigerated water dispenser.

jack wonders if he will stay awake.

jack wears variegated blue and gray flannel pajamas and a grey bon iver t-shirt featuring a lock hanging from the neck, he thinks.

jack thinks he will fall asleep even tho he just woke up.

jack exits his apartment.

jack goes to the little market two hundred fifty paces away.

jack smiles at the middle-eastern owner.

jack knows him, but can never remember his name.

jack is embarrassed and never asks again.

jack opens the cooler door and pulls out a Monster.

jack sees a frozen Home Run Inn pizza in an adjacent cooler.

jack cries.

jack thinks about the time he got on the wrong train line and his mother drove an hour and they stopped at the actual Home Run Inn restaurant.

jack thinks about the coffin.

jack thinks his mother is still his best friend.

jack has never worried how this sounded.

jack turns away from the cooler.

jack reassures his nameless convenience store friend he is 'ok.'

jack estimates 55-60% of his life is occupied with assurances and reassurances.

jack wonders if he caused chandra to run away by asking her if she was running away.

jack takes his change and puts his gloves on.

jack wonders why he has to wonder.

jack wants to make a declarative statement.

jack states the world is fucked; we are fucked.

jack is certain of only these propositions - and that he is walking down a street towards his apartment.

jack wants to call chandra and ask her what color she would paint a barn.

jack does not call chandra.

jack sits on his couch.

jack thinks about pleasure.

jack thinks about masturbating or writing.

jack thinks they are the same thing.

jack thinks about immanuel kant.

jack sits on his bed naked and reads tao lin.

jack masturbates and then writes.

jack copies tao lins style.

jack doesnt know if he (jack) has a style.

jack wonders if style matters.

jack suspects he likes tao lin's style because it is styleless.

jack thinks style is another facade, another obscurant.

jack thinks he wants to write igloos or wigwams or open faced tents like on LOST when they were camped out on the beach.

jack doesnt want to hide anything from anybody.

jack wishes he could stop hiding things from himself.

jack glares at the unopened Monster.

jack thinks about cavemen drinking Monsters and ripping flesh off the bone, teeth grinding, glistening.

jack listens to tool's 'undertow' (the album).

jack wonders if he asks too much of people.

jack thinks he asks Enough.

jack thinks about graveyard hearts.

jack wishes he got in a car accident and didnt remember anything before the car accident.

jack's ass thinks he has not moved in hours.

jack gets up and feels the Monster.

jack's Monster is cold.

jack has not been thinking for hours.

jack wants to be able to watch LOST for the first time.

jack wonders why they ever wanted to leave the island.

jack reads an article on alternet asking "why are americans passive as millions lose their homes, job, families, and the american dream."

jack listens to animal collective's 'fireworks' and thinks he could cry if he wasn't so funny.

jack thinks he likes to be sad.

jack counters that the world is fucked.

jack rebuts his (jacks) counter.

jack does not think anything is decided.

jack walks around his room.

jack wants to call chandra.

jack does not call chandra.

jack sits at his computer and opens up gmail.

jack knows what he wants to do and pleads with jack to abstain.

jack reads chandra's first words.

jack reads every word they wrote each other on gchat, gmail, and facebook which he estimates at between twenty-five and seventy-five thousand.

jack recounts every face to face and phone conversation he can remember.

jack remembers every meaningful look chandra ever gave him.

jack wonders how many looks he misinterpreted.

jack estimates that one percent of people that say they are happy actually are happy.

jack estimates Some Greater Percentage of people that think they are unhappy have happier seconds than happies have lifetimes.

jack wonders if he is one of these people.

jack wonders about happiness density.

jack thinks chicken and broccoli and cheese makes him happy.

jack talks to a friend on gchat.

jack thinks how easy it is to fake emotions online.

jack wonders how long chandra has been faking it.

jack yells at jack for doubting chandra.

jack reminds jack that her great feeling of enlightenment, of lightness, of exerting her will alone has coincided with pulling away from jack.

jack is weary.

jack wonders why he is weary.

jack makes a peanut butter, grape jelly, and Nacho Cheesier Doritos sandwich and drinks a Capri Sun and feels better.

jack would like to someday meet a happiness not extinguished upon comprehension.

jack doesn't know what to do.

jack goes through the motions.

jack smiles all the time.

jack laughs at every joke.

(repeat x ∞)

sometimes stooping picking up change
on one knee
i wonder if im home

i think too many things in one day.

i cant remember what happened yesterday.

i cant remember how i was moved.

i cant remember the truth i found.

i cant remember how i want to live.


i cant remember

anything but the clouds

anything but the drought

anything but the smell of rain

anything but the clouds anything but the drought anything but the smell of rain

i cant remember anything but the smell of rain

__the finger extended towards my doorbell

i cant remember anything but the view from my window

__aiding and abetting dreams in their felonies

i cant remember anything but the smell of rain the view from my window and your extended finger and nothing but the drought is real. nothing but sandpaper on babies bottoms.

i think too many things in one day. these are some things i thought and remembered.

of course

listen_listen__you gotta hear this song__it's fabulous__its so beautiful you MUST hear it but pleasepleaseplease wait one sec_____ wait a couple secs here ok_____ for me i have to___ i have to___ i have toooo__ what do i have to do_____ ohohoh i have to get my cigaretteshahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
we have to listen at the same time and_____where is my coat here it is______ yeah yeah we have to listen at the same time and smoke cigs at the same time_i mean right_right

a title to separate this from the this above this

i guess
ive never really gotten over the fact
one of the few
philosopher recommended
capital F facts out there
that i bleed

amor fati

the passing -
the vagabond

wolf moon


that huge, whitest of whites


brought my world closer
to the world envisioned
since the fall
since i found myself

a separation
a disparate object
among a seeming mass
a satisfied, assimilated community


i wont ask her to stay
it wouldnt make a difference
tho i dont decide against from impotence


the moon will always be there


whether covered in sunshine
one with a cloud
or highlighted by a black back expanse


i know she's there

open
running
howling
blinding
blazing


and i know she knows im here


thats all i need to know







so i tell myself as i exaggerate psychospiritual rot

e-p-i-l-o-g-u-e

when you meet the moon
don't look both ways

there will always be night
blanketing our candles n bulbs

we need the moonlight
else we shall wander
in thorns n deep waters always
unknowing till submerged till pricked

unable to see neither feet nor dreams

nothingness is something we create because sometimes somethingness is just too much (of whatever it is)

thinking about Possible Greatness/Heroism/Excellence/Divinity churns the balsamic bile, swirls it around with tenderness, sends it up against gravity, lines my esophagus while my nose bleeds from the too swift descent, away from clouds, and seeing charon wisps thinking its Time, thinking its time to rest and not particularly caring, not particularly feeling anything particular except the lacking which is its own bizarre feeling which is a feeling. which is a feeling that i can't reject. its all thats there. nothing but nothing.

a woman vacuums in the apartment above. it's 9 a.m. on saturday. nothingness is better than this something.

there are cans and cans lining shelves, blockading books, keeping them safe from forgetful hands, stuffed into the pocket of available space directly above my penis, formed from a tight fetal position greg louganis would envy. my hand is protected by a wondrous piece of elastic encircling my waist and giving me the only pride that seems worthwhile in this time. the pride of a limbless man dependent upon others to thrust him.

the pillow covers the left eye. the right eye is losing to the crust. the right eye is throwing bricks at the sleepies window, putting flaming feces at its doorstep, and it wont go. disgusting when inanimate objects have a full voicemail. i stare through the window as i call, my hand cupped like im in a movie peering into my locked-out-of-home where i will find dead my beloved wife whom i wooed for 40 years. the red, archaic landline voicemail light blinks and i think it's telling me to never come back.

nonono, the rocks n stones n trees n branches n wind are not disgusting.

i am disgusting. my will matters not. i peer into my own windows. i throw bricks at my own windows. i light feces at my doorstep'n'runaway. smiling. the soles of my feet smacking my own ass. and i will run for hours this way round my childhood neighborhood. reaching out to 12 year olds on dads lawnmower like marathon bystanders. but they don't smile at me. they don't have water for me. i am crying as the distance grows. i am crying as i run away and yell dont ever stop. dont. dont ever ever. dont ever care less or more than you do right now. dont leave this place.

i stop at a corner, t-intersection, and sit indian style. it is brighter than i thought. families on tandem bicycles ride around me. 14 year olds smoking cigarettes slink by, sneering, wearing the fashion du jour, trying so hard to be anything and therefore becoming nothing. a little girl comes over and asks if i would like lemonade. i give her 5 dollars and decline. she brings me the lemonade and smiles. i smile back at her and accept it with two hands, wanting so badly to run far away from her, or just sob on her shoulder and beg her to never get old, to always love the world and people as much as she does right now. she walks away unchanged.

i sip n think about how to treat this tremendous ass pain.

i will sit on cold kobe slabs later.

i will then cook these slabs.

i will then eat these beautifully coached, beautifully cut, beautifully cooked meats with clean silverware and napkin emerging from oxford cloth button down shirt, protecting my father's favorite tie.

two days later, i shall perish since i cannot wipe my own ass.

a parade of elephants pound pavement centimeters away
sharp fucking tusks thirsty, erect
those huge fucking enwombing ears

i am prefontaine
i am bolt
i am looking to run off into my own orbit

the elephant is on the treadmill next to me
huffing
puffing
blowing my every house down

i am running

i am running fast like a three-legged antelope to elysium’s gates
while the elephant stands 20 first downs away
from my hot open carcass
a free buffet for approaching famished lions
that will soon bring hyenas like stoned hung over college kids on saturday afternoon

i put on my latex gloves and snap them to scare myself away