Zodiac signs are bullshit.
And the Earth is covered in concrete.
Until politicians and corporations
change their tune(s),
I ain’t changing mine.
How's that for trickle down economics?
As yet another patch of mismatched buddies
in this violent, cynical action movie we call life,
these poems matter more than most things
created on a moddy cone Monday.
Seize the falcon.
Mix up werds, misspell them.
Leave a legacy like a landfill.
Born under Scorpio skies,
I don’t know why
none of it matters
until you make it matter.
I take the last sip
of water
from a plastic bottle
that has been sitting in my truck,
and toss it out the window.
When the convict
doing community service
picks it up,
I hope he dreams of me.
How's that for a legacy?
We are never
until forever.