Bowls of Sand and Milk

I’m so blitzed I’m nearly seeing double. I’m watching the ceiling, how the beams of wood move up and down like tetris, sliding themselves neatly into place.

I had to call the vet to come and kill my dog today. On the roof there are people doing blow and watching sunsets look at how fucking bright and red and pink that is holy shit it’s fucking beautiful, man.

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Fleeing America

 I think of the talented, smart people I know living out lives of silent desperation, forced to work at jobs they despise to make ends meet. I read statics on the staggering rates of incarceration, murder, and gun crime and their correlation to socioeconomic status. I see an America that has forgotten about class to argue about gender pronouns and bathrooms, people who should be united under a common banner spewing hatred and vitriol toward one another. I see a wasted dream, a country that could set the bar high, provide for its citizens an unheralded standard of living. A country that had the chance to offer equality of opportunity, a basic standard of living for all its citizens. Instead, unchecked greed has created two Americas. I dream that one day the country of my birth will get its act together, that my family and I will be able to return to a nation where firearms aren’t ubiquitous, healthcare is considered a human right, and all Americans are guaranteed a certain standard of living. Until that time I’ll remain a man without a country.

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11

I’m twenty-five. Catastrophe leveled my world; dogmatic principles have been vaporized. The future reduced to cinders, all in a moment. I imagine I’m beyond the last horizon where broken dreams and ruined love go to die. I can’t concentrate or sit still or eat. There is only coffee, cigarettes and pacing then coffee cigarettes and pacing. I’m alone haunting a four bedroom house on a tree-lined suburban street for an eternity. There are ghosts on every street corner. Nights are the worst. Maybe I’m still there.

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