The expectation,
Of you to accept the inhalation,
Of the evaporation,
Of someone else’s waste.

Make it make sense,
How the walls of stalls,
Fail to reach its maximum highs and lows,
For all of us to share what we release.

We listen to the air,
That flubs between *** cheeks,
Just as the **** projects deuces,
Into the bowl that cups the sound of wind.

We hear the moans and sighs,
Of relief, constipation and strain,
As we urinate nearby,
Adjacent to the incomplete **** shack.

Make it make sense,
How tasting the gases,
Of Joe Blow, blowing out his insides,
Is a customary to our community.

A sociological experiment,
Deemed to generate sociopathy,
As we laugh at the flatulence,
And giggle at one’s vulnerability.

Merely a forgotten fact,
That we have been there too,
We go there every day,
And pretend that others don’t do the same.

And without a mere act of courtesy,
The space is left filthier than the last,
Because why be considerate for the next?
Someone’s job is to cleanse my waste.

Furthermore is the neglect,
Of faucets, soap and towels,
Aimed to **** bacteria,
That exits biological passageways.

Why oh why,
Must I be forced to study,
Why this is simply unacceptable,
This concept of oversharing?

Recurring stage fright,
Readily apparent,
When forced to **** beside men,
More than double my size.

I’ll simply never understand,
How by design,
What we wouldn’t do in front of house guests,
Is something we are urged to do in front of strangers.

Bonding,
With a bunch of hairy, overweight men,
Who clear their throats, bladders and colons,
In my personal space.

Huff, puff, smooth bravado,
This instrument that I play,
Whisks me away into smokey,
Desolate lounges,
Filled with women in black and red dresses,
Who would otherwise look away,
If not for my silky, suave vibrato.

Ooh, how I can carry a tune,
My fingers dance on the keys,
Like raindrops on a windowsill,
The neon lights at the door,
Buzzing outside in the cold.

The only thing warming up,
This cold little soul,
Is a finger of rye,
Adjacent to the ashtray,
That holds my neglected cigarette.

She watches, She listens,
My face turns purple,
As I pour my heart out on stage,
Out in the open in this vacant place,
With only the few of us around.

What goes in, always,
Comes out,
Through the ******* of life,
Which is **** itself.

Such a waste,
That we are born,
Live,
And die,
Fighting for things,
Money
Materials,
******* things,
That we can’t take with us,
When we die.

What a ******* waste it all is,
Yet somehow,
Everything and everyone is needed,
For the next phase of waste.
**** becomes fertilizer,
We become reborn,
Into whatever else is **** out next.

730 days of ambiguity,
Searching your soul,
Finding a cracked China doll,
Fragile, yet beautiful,
With a tragic past.

That one holiday in New London,
A mere ride on the Ferry away,
But we took the long way,
Simply to have more time.
More time, how I wish… we had it.

Our excitement as bold,
As our love for each other then,
You watched that Mohegan Sun rise,
Through that gaping window, overlooking the lake,
As you studied my sleep.

A holiday festivity,
Experiencing Siberian music,
In this Native American palace,
Dining like royalty,
And smiling in harmony.

730 days of highs and lows,
Despite how it all ended, and it did end,
That one, quaint little memory,
Reminds me of one simple thing,
We’ll always have Mohegan Sun

The logic fascinates me,
How a perfectly fine bundle of bananas,
Is just thrown away,
Simply because,
Nobody wanted the inconvenience,
Of having to peel.