This chip on my shoulder is growing bolder, catching on the flimsiest grievances.
Fear measured on a scale of bejeezuses, malfeasances don’t hold my sixty second attention span like they used to, unless they’re intravenous.
The newspapers gaslight,
politicians rationalize our mistrust, like I don’t know
in the red can be.
This attitude problem is a philosophical option I choose to exercise with glee.
Authority often isn’t earned but arbitrarily given, and continuously gifted with its presence, I’m smitten with smiting it, awaiting its indictment in a gladiator ring.
But the conspiracy theorist streak went and made a career of kissing ass, put on a shirt and tie one morning and decided not to wear the sass, before the symbiosis of starvation reached a critical mass.
And I might die of madness before material bliss
yet don’t live for the power trip like some.
I live for love notes wrapped around a brick and thrown through your windows,
gumming up the worksmanship of
blue-collar wear and tear.