(behind the artful dodge)

My brain is a wine drunk stumble through the old banks i've trudged too well and too long (never wisely, it would seem as these histories repeat at a rate that would leave me shamed if there weren't so many other legitimate guilts to call my own if not so eagerly any more) in twenty odd years along the banks of the world.

And i can't say i've ever been the better for it.

All this thinking. fucking reflecting. lamentations on how good things were and what perilous regrets made me whatever man i could come to call myself in the morning with a sore gut and a strangled head wishing she was next to me when i won't even know where the hell i am. just that i have to crawl up. shower. sip. shit. shower and stumble off into the regulations of living a little less of a lie every day.

And that's just because i couldn't give a shit anymore what powers think of me. i'll never be among their ranks. i'll never own a company. command disdain from the petty ploys i throw stale beans at to get them to do the little dance they do so well when company arrives and needs cheap entertainment.

So why the fuck should i bother?

To climb the corporate ladder in the hopes some fucking boys club lets me slip through the cracks in the stained glass ceiling?

Fuck that.

If i'm a peon, i'm a peon. another angry white man pooling a less than average white wage in a world that has no place for such a stunning lack of color.

But how long can that possibly be enough for me?