Eleventh Week

January 9

Unorthodox

Is

My

Middle

Name

Baby

January 10

Walking three miles for school all-around can get quite annoying

No doubt about it

Yes.

January 11

Damien Sandow

Intellectual Savior of the Masses

YOU’RE WELCOME!

January 12, 2013

All I do is walk around and around

The same streets and neighborhoods

And the same public parks and libraries

Over and over for never-ending years

From elementary to middle to high school
And now college; All I do is walk to these places, walk away from

These places, and walk in-between these places.

Shit, I’m surprised my legs haven’t fallen off or turned into stumps.

They will soon.

I don’t doubt that.

But I guess I’ll keep on walking.

Cars don’t interest me unless I’m speeding or sleeping in them,

So fuck it.

(And the Bus, too, forty-five thousand stops just to pass one single block.)

Ridiculous.

Miami’s Ridiculous.

Shit.

January 13, 2013

There is a God;

Her name is David Bowie.

She has risen once more;

Thank Bowie for that.

January 14

A full week of classes grating my nerves like cheddar cheese through a cheese grater

And simple metaphors similes analogies comparisons counterpoints and no punctuation and grammer since

Whats the point right I mean it don’t matter

It don’t matter It aint’ matter

why capitalize shit it dont matter baby the only thing that matters is that what matters is the thing itself don’t mind my stupid shit ill be fine and aokay baby yeah no punctuation and zero grammer man TO THE RESCUE HUZZAH!!!!

(I might have a breakdown, or did that just happen up above? Hmm. Whatever.)

January 15

Where does the time go?,

He asks himself.

All alone,

Walking to school and back,

Pain in his knees and deep in his back,

And a yearning in his groin for something to connect with(yeah I said it so what)

The man, the teenager, the boy, the child, petulant and annoyed,

The sun blazing daggers of pure nuclear light into his poor eyes:

Never enough time, he says to no one in particular not even himself; Never enough time at all.

He goes home and buys porn

He goes out and buys books
He comes back home and drinks coffee

He goes out and comes back so often that home doesn’t feel like home at all.

It just feels like a free motel, with the price of horrible neighbors and abysmal bathrooms, huzzah.

He will live on and on, moving this way and that, meandering between pitiful metaphors and useless similes and the rhythms of life will sound like a siren to him, never making sense;

But it’s not like it matters to him, either way.
He’ll live to die.

He’ll die to live.

He was born in 1993.

He was dead in 1993.

The End.

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