Fifty Cent Praises

Promises. Promises.

Truth be known. Truth not being told. All around.
Lies and spies and Jericho ties. Life is a game.
You play poker to win it. To be in it. Your sickness
is your addiction. Your attrition.

I have to take care of my own. Zone out on clicking
tasks that mask the virtue of a life lived taking care
of my family and taking care of my vast past
that isn’t over.

The last laugh laughs last, past cubicle rows that sow
the integrity of speaking the truth. Of not holding
a grudge. Of letting go of fifty cent raises that
glazes the praises of one man rubbing the other the wrong
way.

I deserve my fifty cent raise. Fifty cent ways.
Slaves that click the time, tick off annuities not multiplying.
Sliding down the pockets of larger charges. Larger Mustangs.
Larger stains. Debts to be paid.

Put your poker face on pal. Roll the dice. Are you telling
the truth? And if not, how can you live with yourself?
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Roach Motel

Course contract. Backing up systems. Copy files to make sure asses are covered. Smothered in onions and pecans, pork, South Beach Diet, rules. Shrink waste. Shrink taste buds, turn you into one hell of a stud. I’m staring at blank walls again. Blank time again. Making up worlds and hurdling pearls strung through Aphrodite statue concrete, plastic millipedes, while reading technical manuals.

They sneak into your house. While it’s raining, and bite your ass at night. Taking away your virginity. Taking away the trinity of food, shelter, and disgrace in this place. Let’s pile in on thick. Barricade ourselves in. We are being attacked daily, by cockroach dissidents heads rapped in rags, laying dead in the streets of our forefathers. Folks too scared to call it off. Too scared to admit wrongs. Turning the other cheek will get you slapped. Mapped by drones flying low to pinpoint WMD’s that never did, maybe did, maybe hid, from existence?

It all hangs in the balance. Thin lines walked. Thin lines crossed. And never going back. Never admitting that you are wrong. Sticking by your cowboy guns. Sticking by your cowboy funds. I’ve written it. Signed it. The cockroaches keep coming. You can spray and spray. But they will keep coming in. Your borders are not guarded. They will sneak in under your door, and through your floor. You have want they want. And they were here first.