Every year it gets harder to just live.
Everything worth living for,
will fucking kill you,
I think the statisticians would tell you that you if you
smoked an unfiltered camel,
followed that up with several rounds of bourbon,
with beer chasers for good measure,
ate a 48 oz porterhouse steak,
with cherry pie a la mode and Irish Coffee and several more unfiltered camels for dessert,
then went home and had a nightcap of good strong port, topped off with laudanum,
you’d die instantly,
but you’d also die with a smile on your face.
I watch them,
every time I go to the market,
like doctors in their long white coats.
I never dreamed of being a doctor,
but I still dream of being a butcher.
Look at these lovely porterhouse steaks Mrs. McCormick,
I’m sure Stanley will love them.
Or no Mrs. McCormick, with steaks like these a little salt and pepper is all you’ll need,
that and a good hot cast iron skillet.
Let me wrap them for you.
What could be better than to share the joy of quality meat cut by hand,
to give a little cooking advice,
to be loved by all.
No one really cares if the butcher is packing around a few (hundred) too many pounds,
or has an outrageous mustache,
such signs of eccentricity and joie de vivre are signs of excellence in a butcher.
I can’t ever remember seeing an angry butcher,
and if I did I leave straight away and find another market,
such are the joys of meat handling,
how can one be sad surrounded by glorious steaks, roasts, and chops,
and all the glorious offal,
kidneys, livers, and hearts,
all waiting to be turned into something delectable by bold cooks, who know what hidden gems they can be.
when I grow up,
if I grow up,
I shall be a butcher.
This one rigged ass game we all play.
It’s outcome determined long before it started,
written in the stars.
Yet we play,
we dutifully carry on,
because someone convinced us there was a reward at the end just for playing,
and we play and play even though the game sucks,
hoping for a participation trophy at the end.
And we can’t quit, because, well, quitting is bad,
and quitters won’t get a trophy at the end,
and the Ref says they’ll have to go to a bad place.
As if there was something worse than this,
and fuck that Ref,
I’ve never seen him,
But for some reason we keep playing and playing.
We make up new rules all the time too,
as if the old rules weren’t shitty enough.
Is that a hot dog you are eating?
That’s made of meat.
Meat is murder.
You shouldn’t eat hot dogs.
Now a poor sap like me, just some 4th string nobody who won’t be remembered,
can’t even enjoy a hot dog without wondering if it’s really a bad thing,
being afflicted as I am with an overzealous conscience,
and terminal niceness,
I can’t just say, fuck you you arrogant fuck,
this bullshit game sucks as it is,
did you really have to go and spoil my god damned hot dog too?
That long hair look might have worked in your day,
but I don’t think will fly with your current fan base,
well have to get you a shave and a haircut straight away.
All that giving your wealth away and piling up treasures in heaven instead of earth,
can’t sell that either,
I mean it sounds so socialist, and socialism will definitely alienate your base.
How about focusing on something I can sell to your base a little easier,
can I get you on record saying that AIDS is a plague from God, I think that will play really well
I can really work with that,
and how do you feel about all these Mexicans,
can I get you on the record as being anti-immigration?
I have you on the record as saying we should love our enemies,
I’ll need you to really distance yourself from that remark,
it’s completely unsellable,
if you can make these changes,
then I can work with you,
we’re done here.
It began at the Piper’s Lady,
we talked, or at least I talked,
You read poetry,
We all chain smoked,
interspersed with shots of whiskey,
and we loved each other in mutual silence,
mine because of my sense of honor and duty,
yours because of your natural shyness,
I went home and wept,
morning for what might have been.
Never suspecting for a moment,
our journey had just begun.
a word you can conjure with,
every door contains a mystery,
and every time we open one,
we cannot be certain what will be on the other side,
no matter how many times we’ve opened it.
Ran over a dead sparrow with the lawn mower,
probably going to need a new mower.
Tossed what was left of it into the compost heap with the yard trimmings.
So the sparrow eventually ends up in my wife’s flower garden,
perhaps incarnated as a daffodil, or some such,
don’t know really know to much about what kind of flowers she grows,
but they do make the yard look nice.