Pot Helps pt. 1

What it is is that basket full of laundry,
two-day old outfit,
slept in lived in.
That consistent nagging persistent bullshit of the television's advertising bullhorn mouthpiece
and my pissed pants.
The stiff frozen putty feel of my lower back
and my crashed up mashed up teeth.
Shaking my head to the n-o-n-s-e-n-s-e;
spell it out with me:
n-o-n-s-e-n-s-e.
Aaahhh fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me.

What it is is that snow-raped muddy trash ground,
the last remnants of my baby fat still sticking around,
forever of sound,
wasting money wasting time wasting money wasting
time.
What you didn't create,
you shouldn't define.
So stop telling me about this American life of mine.
Got no time for money, business, religion, police, peace, bumper stickers or corporate crime,
just time.
Because what it is is a book I've yet to write,
a death I've yet to die;
meeting up with my past breaths in the sky,
gratefully living a terrifyingly naked and humble life.