Golf is a form of terrorism; Wall Street is a war zone. There are winners and there are losers in the coastal cities and the country clubs. There is a gulf between you and me and history. You can’t ever go back to where you are from, if you were never going to proudly wear your past.

Kneecap me baby Destroy my hope I didn’t feel like Walking today Anyway And anyway Some people Take steroids For sickness Some people Take steroids For violence And anyway If you want You can be like me And drag your ass Across state lines Like a skinny gimp

I was listening to country music all day and all night, and I realized it took making a human to finally be able to understand humans.

I stack words on top of each other like um maybe sand or pan cakes under neath neon signage near a pier of some thing approximating

I was walking down a busy commercial boulevard in Northeast Los Angeles. I was wearing gym shorts. He was driving a low rider. He said to me, “Damn, son. Hike up those shorts a little more. You look like you could be pretty behind that mask.” After I finished running my errands, I went home and took a nap. When I woke up, I walked the dog and ate pickled herring on sourdough toast for dinner. That cholo thought I was a cutie; my wife thinks I’m an old man in training.

is all about being physically present without really being emotionally available. You can't be in two places at one time. You can't have integrity without knowing what is ultimately integral.

Freeze all mortgages, make rent free. We've got heads to get high and mouths to feed. Goddamn the airlines, goddamn the Ivy League, goddamn the NFL, goddamn the meat industry. Double the pay of all nurses and teachers. Round up bankers and investors with a zip-tie lasso; ghost ride their whips to the top of a plateau. I'm looking through windows like it's 1995— we're all Crips or Bloods in the supermarket. For now, I'm seeing double negative. But soon, I'll be seeing snake eyes.

I burned my upper lip on some hot grits. I split my lower one holding back words. I need to go to the dentist— he wears a hazmat suit now. I need to hide in the ceiling— we crawl in HVAC units now.

Last night my wife told me if she was a stripper her name would be Umami.

Raspberries and sardines sounds like a bougie dish you could find in Moscow. I accidentally made it when I let fish juice spill on a plastic case. My wife's not Russian, so she cleaned the fruit as best as she could. The soggy bottoms got fed to our alpha dog for his pre-breakfast.

There is no god— how do I know? Why else would we have money? A higher power needs no wealth. If there was a god, we could love more. There would be no violent crimes. We would all just die at, like, the age of 100. If there was a god, god would party, too. Smoking and drinking would be good for you. And last call would be when the story ended.

I painted my one toenail black; I ripped another one off. I watched my newborn sneeze, as he watched me cough. My wife ignores me like she does; my friends drink without me. My life is more to me than prose, but these days, all I do is read.

Painting is so pregnant; sculpture is for suckers. I'll take photos for proof; first place for new editions. Cool it now—is this the end? Death to all art: World War, forever.

I called a company a "who" I called an asshole a "you" No cop is a good cop No job is the best job

is the greatest occupation in the world because you never have any expectations that anyone will ever care about anything you say or do.

just needs a kiss poured from the pitcher of love but love is only real if you believe in it like god and/or capitalism and we all know that faith isn't cheap but wealthy people are

Every good mother thinks their son is a catch, but the thing is, most men are shit.

When I'm at a natural food store, I often feel like talking to a manager. "How does this gluten-free beer contain 30g of carbohydrates?" These are the types of questions I have for these types of people. I'm tired of all the rat-ass solutions these fools draft on mood boards. Just give me a Budweiser, a slice of pizza, and silence.

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Late at night, I imagine myself as the driver for a famous mobster. Maybe I'd live somewhere like Buffalo or Tampa. I could still be a poet; Buffalo has poetics, and Tampa has crud. Nothing really happens until the sun passes out like a lightweight drunk. Nothing ever happens until the moon flashes you like a girl gone wild. I think I could be an above-average accessory to crimes committed in a bubble.

THIS PITTSBURGH-BORN POET LIVED & DRANK IN LOS ANGELES, WRITING ABOUT THE ANXIEITES & DEPRESSION OF AMERICA WHILE RESEARCHING THE WORLD FOR MONEY