The Meaning of Life

the attempt to understand life
seems a guaranteed failing
the eternal act of extrapolation of meaning
the insatiable desire to configure
its meandering metaphors into
operational spectrums of reference
that allow us to function as relevant

‘What is the meaning of life?”

if there were an answer to this question,
would life still hold meaning?


if stars are just stars

if stars are just stars
unmapped by constellations,
mythology, and astronomers
do they weave their own stories
and their own destinies?
do they live and die silence?
as they shine
without a name, without history
are they still stars
or are they eyes
forever opening and closing
opening and closing

a bird shits on my head

a bird shits on my head
trying to see if I give a damn
as if avian feces is enough
to rain on my parade;

the truth of the matter is
the world always wants to
fuck you without a condom
until you are pregnant
with its bastard child;

goddamn son of a fate
the universal consequence
of unprotected screwing is that
you live with its little baby grin
for the rest of your life

but alas
what is life but a few seconds of friction
a few bumps, a few grunts, a few cries?
you ride that life and rock it
like a boat, you suck it up,
you spit it right back in its face

because when life gives you shit,
don’t you dare give a shit in return
because why make life even shittier
by adding to its shit?

so fuck it
fuck life, fuck the world
just fuck it and
and make the best
the fucking best of it all

P.S. “a few seconds of friction” is a phrase I borrowed from Barney’s Version, by Mordecai Richler. It’s awesome.

a useless currency

The grass grows like daggers;

The air breathes like fumes.

Whatever happened

to our world?

Of course, it’s no surprise.

It can still be beautiful,

if we believe it to be so,

if we hope it to be so.

But really, we don’t.

What is the use of beauty;

can beauty be forged

into coins?

Think about it.

Just think about it.