Beat Poem

You're a real high society character, always letting us know how hard you have it through her retainer

You who has the trouble of having no trouble to advertise for an east coast education

How much sauce is too much sauce? Last night you decided a large portion was fine, screwing around at bedtime and waking up late on a school day, showering in gray morning light with an empty chest, your cat watching you from the tiles of the bathroom floor, itching itself, no time to comb your hair but you can't just leave you hair at home so you head to class crowned with a lumpy pancake. True story.

What I’m trying to say is, you won’t be our great liberator. Somebody else will have to resuscitate the 1998 McDonald’s Szechuan Sauce. But God damn, it could’ve been you, if you just worked a little harder, didn’t scrub out your neural connections every night, and were a little nicer to your family. It's your own fault your world is losing its color.

Now, time for philosophy -- 3 children and no money? Or no children and 3 money?

Decide now, or roast forever on the flame-kissed spit of the morning announcements, the soft words of a muscular Romanian.

I’m sorry I was mean to you in middle school.

But - vegans curdle my blood, stop trying to hypnotize me, who are you, the notorious F.I.G., 6% bodyfat is for corpses, that’s who, Jesus Christ himself ate meat and only complained when he didn’t have Szechuan sauce. 1999 was a hard year in Nazareth.

Who are you to lecture me on the dangers of robbing Santa Claus, anyways? Have you ever even fought a reindeer? Easy: high centers of gravity.

I’m sorry you never had a munchie meal at 3 am. Top three officially ranked institutions of learning - Yale, Harvard, Jack in the Box at 3 am, all prestigious but only one teaches you to be a man, only one has curly fries.

Riding in Air Force 1 at the drive-thru, auxiliary cord is bumping eternal daytime, a tropical beat, he has returned to see his children dance, bask in his solar presence, enchanted by his celestial celebrity, they sing his praises in every language, on every continent, all eyes turned upwards, dumb, contented expressions on their faces, blissful, hoop dancing under the honey-mustard sky.

He is the man for whom no reasonable mother would name her child, out of respect, of course. He is the man you'll never be.

The song changes, Spotify premium is great but only if you don’t have siblings who kick you off of it every fifteen minutes to listen to 21 Pilots.

Anyways, end of the night, you go back to your bird’s eye view of the dark street, shiny and damp from evening rain, where streetlights are reflected in puddles of blood, rippling, disrupted by a pedestrian’s careless footstep.

You're a watcher from now on, a night crawler, not a doer, mover and shaker, sunlit champion in the sky. You did it to yourself.