Say NO…

O get me off this train of consanguinity — the congruency of my talents wane. This bass line leaves me ill. This tune is a torrent of deterrents. This road craggy, rent, and ruined. 

Can you make purchase and navigate? And what of the fog and interminable rain?

Signs read: Say NO to rat poison.

Is nothing safe?

Ascetic and anesthetized he moves through life in quandaries and sobs, through the ether in quadrants and smogs. He arrives at the media res by ditching the prefatory rags. He travels the cystic creeks with abettors of abattoir asininity, and dires foul the weather with fever speakers. 

He delayed his belay because the descent was vitreous not vertiginous — this may sound incongruous, even spurious, but he’d like to throttle himself with a chapped leather belt in an autofictional immolation — an authorial affectation not worth the pissbottle it’s printed on —

and on and on and on —

this infinite obloquy goes on.

What I’m Reading:

in the story 
i was taught alongside my first 
language it takes god six days 
to make the terrible world 
and on seventh day he rested
and on the eighth we blocked traffic. 

— Sam Sax / “Ode to Those Who Block Tunnels and Bridges”