"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

Johannsen Shovel

My ears pain when I come out of the cold
Into a shelter where which
I behold prosperity
A sanctuary from iniquity
Aurally, I figure…
I can not process, automatically
It’s treasure or
Even that pleasure
Collected from over thousands of years
Of meticulous lore.

Excavated
From a wilderness
Shoveling shit
Devoured, digested and processed
Into a facility where which I can exist
Pinching ‘being’ between fingers
While eschewing relent
The way Joshua Fedorski
Had held his cigarette
That bastard and his smirk
Was brought back to mind
By the irk at seeing
Amenities, bereft
As Benjamin shovel-forked
Meals into his mouth
The lout,
Grasping the tool with impunity,
Imbibing obnoxiously
What I am forced to eat
Philosophically.

-Sunday, January 11, 2009

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