existential

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1989, I snuck into the shuttered
Ruin of the Granada Theater.

Everyone knows that you shit yourself when you die.

Sunday seemed to be one those midsummer mornings. A cerulean sky and a collective lament, “I drank too much last night.”

and I heard
this lawyer say
“oh my god that’s every lawyer’s dream,
to represent someone on death row
who is facing execution by the state”

I am at the Walmart
and I feel dead

look into the pan
hear that grey cube fry

Call it naivety, stupidity or a combination of the two; my dumbass thought I could be a writer and actually support myself financially.

David Duchovny’s brain is heavy.

The man who collects souls yelled, “Hey, I have another bag,” and I ran over to take it from him. It was my turn.

Things were burning everywhere outside. I took this as an opportunity to get reacquainted with my body.