I am like you, obese diabetic working man totally defeated by ordinary days, because I too am beaten down by my days, a consumer of charred sizzly popping meats, I too am a consumer of anything and everything sugary with that glittering mystery, of tissue wrappers with sacred names crumpled on them, of endless fake spiritual epiphanies and spiritual roadbumps of phenomenology

I think you are just like me, sore disgruntled loser medicating himself with endless whining complaints, pushing himself along in his raggedy cares, or the bitter woman standing behind all the rest pouting, folding her arms over the accumulated belly of swallowed humiliations she has heaped on herself for not conforming to her own reflection in shiny machinery of the airport or cigarette machines of waiting rooms on hellish avenues, I shall stick out my lower lip of disapproval of the fucked up existence of this world,

I know you, self-obsessed teenager relentlessly plucking at any ragged tuft of hair or bit of yourself that sticks out to be noticed, I too am endlessly worrying about my own concerns at every moment so that I cannot even hear clearly what all these people are saying to me, everyone is saying something about something (I just can’t tell what their point is, I know that’s how it goes for you, it’s all a buzzing static), over and over

I feel you, young racist white youths who veered at me in the pickup truck and flipped me off yelling something with scrunchy faces, so what if I follow you to the intersection and jump out of my vehicle but cannot chase on foot because you run the red light peeling away in exhaust clouds of burning rubber, I am playing your game— I too glory in wild absurd emotive concussions at the end of nerves

I forgive you picky bastard, for holding yourself separate from everyone, for thinking none of this has anything to do with you, you don’t want their oily skin secretions touching your educated fingertips of your sensibilities and goggly eyeballs, you don’t want none of that sticky shit and hair clippings and ethnic spices to get on your person, to deteriorate the porous calcified foundations of your lifestyle, I know I myself have turned away endlessly from people, just like you

I’m with you little kid, wiggling in your chair, can’t sit still in the restaurant while the rest of the family and your father’s friends are eating Lebanese buffet, you gotta jump down out of your curly headed chair and make origami out of the napkin, jumping with dancy leaps throwing it up in the air, pointy napkin tumbling through the air like the flying star of your delight, you are catching it or half-catching it, half-knocking over your water, making commotions, your father jumps out of his chair after chiding and scolding you repeatedly slaps you hard on the back of the head (it was all I could do kid not to jump out of my own chair at that point, sorry I thought it would go harder for you if I did), he grabs your arm and jerks you back to your chair hard, jerks you into sitting position in your chair and snarls in your face “Sit in the goddamn chair and don’t move!” while his guests look discomfited, and you sit there stunned, your delight isn’t even a memory, instantly it’s a numb pain so you don’t even cry, just sit in shock—I lift my insipid ice water and drink to you kid

You are my kind, you ineffective nerdomatic intellectuals submerged in joys of wordage and verbiage, expostulating or correlating, cross-referencing and coagulating texts and notions, sentiments and works, concepts and price lists, all because that’s the peaceful thing to do while the world is at war—fuck ‘em, they want to kill each other—I’ll go read and write poems

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