BLACK CHALK
(otherwise known as Someone Is Always Building Another Deathstar)
...Isn’t that the whole point of Star Wars? That there will always be an evil empire somewhere, if not on the distant forest moon of Endor then amassing right now in your bloodstream, permahorny for exploding jawas, some way to make a buck off a custom costume for every_fucking_imaginable habitat in the galaxy, and the itch to lay down some hella inaccurate blaster bolts. What I mean to say is, everyone wants to rule something and I’m thoroughly convinced Jesus was the first Jedi, Satan a Sith, so what does that say about us—the common Han Solo just trying to eke out a living sans wookie companion on the outskirts of Alderaan, or at least what used to be Alderaan. If he can’t cut it, what chance do we stand against the forces of dark in this swirling miasma of mynock shit and bantha slobber? Like what kind of world would even allow someone like Tru…Jabba the Hutt to come into power? You saw that shit: Everyone was cheering like mad at the end of Jedi, but we all knew the truth, as symbolized by the duality of the twin suns of Tatooine—the darkness would inevitably rise again, and Lucas would find a way to revise whatever thin sliver of decency there was into a CGI parody of itself. And I’ll never forget my mom’s answer the Christmas I asked her for a lightsaber: “Laser swords aren’t real, son. But if they were the answer would still be no because you you’ll cut your fucking hands off.”
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...Where was I? Oh Yeah: it's good to have levity in a digital poetry chapbook. Here's how I HOW I WILL BECOME THE ALL-TIME KING OF POETRY: By writing a book called “Cat Poems” all about cats. And here’s the thing: inside the book there are going to be actual cats. You may think that an odd strategy, and you’d be right because becoming a poet is a pretty odd life strategy in the first place. The checks don’t exactly come rolling in and on any given day my students might catch me eating a Lunchable crying inside my car. This is why you shouldn't take yourself too seriously... it is also why you should get tinted windows. Anyway, back to my book. It’s going to be called “Cat Poems” with actual cats inside, and my big follow up is going to be called “Dog Poems”; can you guess the thing about that one? That’s right: inside, there will be money. Actual_real_money. And by that I mean actual real Monopoly money. You may think this an odd strategy too and you’d be right again, because the bank agrees with you, every time I try to deposit Monopoly money into my actual real account. Now, at this point you may be seriously doubting my methods for becoming the all-time king of poetry, but you’ve yet to hear about my third and final book. It’s called “Money And Candy Inside Here,” and if you buy it and open it up can you guess what you’ll find? That’s right: my Netflix password. Because I’ve found there’s one way and one way alone to get people into poetry, and that’s a little show I like to call Tiger King.
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...Oh you're still here. Good. As I was saying: Today I felt alive, by which I mean I updated my Facebook profile back to laser wolves playing guitar. Don’t you know it’s exhausting being a wizard minus the magic? In a dream last night I had like eleven extra bones and pickles for eyes but that’s no excuse for jettisoning reality today. It’s highly irresponsible, I know, but I can’t help it if I get distracted by dankass unicorns. I’m told my attention span is terrible. It’s always been a problem of mine. My third grade teacher once told me Whatever nowpicturethis: Centaurs. Fighting. Robots. Inside a volcano. In outer space. That’s it. Just that image there. If you actually took the time just now to imaginate it in your mindmovies you know it’s fucking awesome. Now back to my “art”: it’s getting harder and harder to be a human being these days. My head keeps falling off and apparently Wal-Mart doesn’t sell Pogs anymore. When I asked the lady behind the counter last week she told me it’s because it’s not the 90s anymore. No matter what year it is though you’ve got to derive hope from something, and sometimes that takes work. Like the other day, I saw these two bunnies breakdancing over baby carrots and it was both cute and terrifying at the same time. And maybe that’s a metaphor for life? Either way, there is enough beauty in this world to kill the Internet, but you’d actually have to unplug and go off the grid to find it. Like actually go hunt for it, like outside your house. Like in your backyard right now ants are fighting wars with spiders and shit. Birds are being birds, all epic as hell and if we’d look up every once in a while we’d see the sun is the perfect dancefloor. But because we tripped at prom once we pretend like we’re too cool for school now. So here we are, leaning up against the great wall of life nursing our Capri Suns and getting extra good at Pokemon Go. Which is understandable. Dancing ain’t easy and there will always be someone laughing at you off the dancefloor. Someone who can’t feel the music because they’re not listening, and laughing will always be easier than dancing. Shhhhhh. Do you hear it? That’s right: it’s Pitbull