I am now twenty years old
What an odd number, or even, in this case:
Boomer’s maybe, Strip Club maybe,
Another year that felt like forever and vanished too soon?
Rain Rain Rain
I don’t really want you to
while I sit at Denny’s
staring at my food
and then at you
outside of the windowpane
Seeing waves come by
It’s Monsoon season in Miami
Rain Rain Rain
I don’t really mind you:
Just don’t ruin any of my books,
or there will be hell to pay.
You are the best going today
And the world owes you your Grey Matter-like
Staying up at five in the morning
I can never tell anymore
Dots flashing across the brain
All effort to stay up
To write this
I can’t take this kind of thing anymore
I’m twenty years old: I’m an old man
October 6 : The Ballad of Heisenberg
As I opened the newspapers today,
I saw the headline loom loud and clear:
“Walter White Found Dead, Nation-wide
Manhunt over,” it said.
For over two years, this man
terrorized the Southwest
Baby Blue skies, money trails,
and Dead Bodies were his signature devices.
Gustavo Fring is gone,
Jack Welker and his men are gone,
Jesse Pinkman is missing,
and someone named Lydia is feeling under the weather.
Heisenberg, the man in the black hat,
the man who had it all,
is gone: Some say he is like a ghost,
forever walking the desert roads.
The streets of Albuquerque
are safe and secure and peaceful, for once:
No more chaos. No more bodies raining down,
raining red, blue, and green.
Stories and books and whole TV industries
are being sparked up again
thanks to you, Walter.
Now you’re gone, and Gray Matter is uncomfortably quiet.
Gale Boetticher, some nerdy libertarian dude with flip flops,
he’s gone, too.
Heisenberg’s empire is gone,
and everyone’s too damn scared to repeat the formula.
Skyler Lambert, Holly Lambert, Marie Schrader:
Glaring looks, even for young Holly.
Drug kingpins rise slowly and fall too fast,
and the fallout is even worse for their family members.
I think he knows about the reputation
his father left behind:
He seems to be doing just fine, in this day and age.
Picture this: a trio,
facing down the inevitability of time and their own temperaments,
making millions of dollars,
not realizing their sins would catch up with them.
Imagine a man wearing a Porkpie felt hat,
sunglasses always on, intellect always at the ready,
ordering hits, counting millions until they stack like a pyramid,
and being the Only King in town.
Come to think of it, what did Walter White ever really want?
Family? Money? Power? Control?
Will History even bother to remember him for long,
until the next Heisenberg comes along?
Until the next Ozymandias decides to rise and then inevitably fall?
Was it explosion? Implosion? Self-destruction? Hubris?
All of the above?
Or just a damn good ole’ deathwish from a dying man?
Look at his picture long enough, and you’ll see Walt Whitman.
I’m not shitting you here, and my friends think I’m as crazy as ever,
but Walter White found his America:
too bad America found him.
Gliding Over All,
Many deaths we have sung,
and many more, still left to come.
So, the ballad of Heisenberg isn’t so easy
to deconstruct: He was a chemistry teacher, and somehow,
wound his way up to Drug Kingpin.
This ballad, like all others, is riddled with questions
and no answers.
a feast with this tale.
They found Hank Schrader’s remains yesterday, along with his
buddy, Steve Gomez: not much was left to find out, in
Tohajilee: Say it three times,
and maybe Heisenberg will appear,
and dissolve you, soon enough.
Who’s to say it’s all over, anyway?
Evil is in all of us, and Good, too:
It’s all relative.
I think some chemistry teacher said it best:
“Chemistry is the study of change. It’s growth, decay, then transformation!”
He was right.
A long day is done
A long day waits
Everything is coming together
And yet, I still don’t want to go back
And I say Hell No to my Biology and Virtual
In fact, screw all of these classes, and
I haven’t learned a thing; how about you?