The Ice is Not Your Bathwater

I'm Ivy League wrestling with my laurels.

I have a lot of boxes to keep things in, but everything is on the shelves.

Seven or more pairs of sunglasses. Miracle goggles. When Sundays are too hard to face because Saturday was full of lust and cigarettes and vicarious living.

Sometimes Bruce Springsteen has all the answers to the questions of the universe and homeless people under the boardwalk in New Jersey have it all figured out.
Ten or more cats can keep you warm at night.

The only problem is chapped hands and a wind-burned face;
and wanting to scream at anyone that wants something out of me.

Stop trying to take and give it up, motherfucker. Get off the television crack and stop liking what everyone tells you to pretend to like and spit out the garbage so I can hear the real words fighting through the real world, real wounds, wheel rounded, wicked ruled venus shaped Jupiter heart of late Autumn breaking the ice

in the ashtray the bird mistook for a drink of water.

There are dance moves that can actually break your neck and I think you're scared of them just like I used to be scared to race because I'd run so fast I thought I might start to fly and I was out of practice.

Like tonight, I listen to French Hip Hop songs because the only thing that matters is the momentum.
Same goes for Korean, it's the same flow, it's similar like the Korean kids learned their flow from the French kids.

I just deleted some pictures on my computer and the person died a few days later.
I guess that's why some people are hoarders. They're just superstitious.

Things are symbolic kind of like that bird that thought the ice was bathwater.
Maybe it used to be, but not today.