The Deluge

The front door's frame was swollen, the hinges rusted, so we stopped closing it. The shingles were rotten. On those rare occasions that the rain briefly stopped, and the sun had the nerve to show its face, the attic floor became a night sky under our feet, complete with overflowing bucket galaxies amid our secret constellations and ruined book asteroid belts. The windows on all floors, the mirrors in every room, the crystal glasses, and every last piece from the china cabinet: we smashed it all. The Macassar Ebony hardwood was littered with glass shards and rotting food, empty bottles of imported wine and beer, cigarette filters and their washed-out packs all floating or sinking in sickly brown standing water.
I taped an m-80 to the television in our room. It was the first time I had laughed in months. You took a sledgehammer to one of the guestrooms and found asbestos. We waded it into balls and threw them at each other in a malignant snowball fight. We razed the room with molotov cocktails and then tore our hair out in frustration. Everything was so saturated, and the asbestos so effective, the room refused to burn.
Before the rain started, we bought matching designer rainslickers; dayglo yellow numbers with matching boots for his and stilettos for hers. We thought it would be cute. Weeks after it had started and we came to accept that this deluge wasn't ending, "not now, not never," she said. Seeing her in that microfiber hood and her stilleto rain boots made me uncomfortable and self-conscious. I started staring at my boots when we were in the same room.
It's been six months since we last spoke, eight months since the rain started. Stuck in this decaying mansion, the water up to our waists. We, beyond words, so sickly stuck, with nothing left to break, and nothing new to yell. No more ways to say "I love you", "I hate you." Absolutely nothing that can rekindle a flame in this marriage, with so much water and stagnation and destruction. We are complacent to the point of madness now. So here I will sit, strapped to this bloated recliner with the water at my chin. And here I will wait for the rain to stop or the world to end.

Hometown

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This is a rap song.

This is a dedicated dedication
a literal and lyrical assassination
a criminal's declaration
my critical examination

You asked me what was missing I realized its my voice
You gave me two doors to pick from I realized it's no choice

You wanted us to hope for change, I hoped for a bang, whitehouse black smoke and flames
won't vote for a name, politicians the same, federal incorporated this fucking country's a shame
you think it's a game?
They're playing people like poker chips in a hat with some shades
Shouting out “all in” bluffing full out now there's 8,000 corpses in shade
Lobbyists lounging, podium pounding, 8 million bucks to senator in trade
They're running around like beheaded chickens, and this is the only time I'll thank charles dickens
Because darkness is cheap, and these Scrooges are liking it

So let's lock and load the guns and then we'll show them our fun
This pen's still a sword that'll make them want to run
I'm talking revolution show them that we're still number one
We're more than just some
demographic tenants with some beer-goggle lenses
green smoke renters with some high high costs and
pill popping people with some low low hopes

This broken body that's surrounding me can still perform a crude lobatomy
9 millimeter tweeter and a 50 caliber speaker to blow the brains out of
those who chose to try and control we
Supposedly you're watching my back, but I'm watching your front and
I highly suggest that you get off of me with those sparkling promises, no armistice, this is all out war

Bombs drop buildings civis caught dumb luck no
this is fate its too late for repentence these tenants should of known better
like letter head of lead addressed to any motherfucker in way
because it's war, all out, automatics are okay when they're no choke full throttled on a baby on a bottle if it's working for they
And what do we do?
Bumper sticker picket protest, catchy slogans, bring them home
But their hollow points beat hollow words and their batons beat hollow domes
Hallowed grounds running red with our own empty voices

This is where the unions fought, and this is where the music stopped,
and this where the canary dropped
a couple of trivial bars like shit on cars