Notices all the bulbs
from his kitchen to bedroom
have finally burned out-
signifying the ebolic era
of gloom/doom he’s kept at heels
for long time standing.

There’s no point of contention here,
no set of new age derivatives
posing as first hand accounts
from people he knows all too well:
a cadre of assine, well-intentioned
mental midgets who feel old
no matter their station in life.

The light bulbs are out.
Rent is 3 weeks away.
He cherishes scraps of aluminum
foil & trimmed nails like a
saving grace.
Wet naps & old R/X’s.
There’s one potato in his cupboard
and a package of Lowry’s
seasoning
but he can’t discern the
flavor.

Suddenly there’s UA dipsticks in his future…
& a letter from the FLA revenue service/
There’s lost teeth & hard feelings-
16bit explanations on the eternal ring
of suffering and how it rises w/ the sun
on the carpet and through the shades.
Deadbeat dads don’t exist w/o the label:
on t.v., in life, on test results outside
inappropriate decisions.

He’s forced to grow up late and
naturally he’s as egocentric/immature
about approaching the balance beam
of pleasure/pain/comfort & unrest.

Caution never served anyone better
and w/ bated breath he prepares to pull
his cock out and hope for the best.

He’s ready to give up on antibiotics altogether,
the process of hanging foundation,
the art of pinching pennies from cheap metal
& garnered, quick, half-hearted assumptions…

All those escapist notions which ring like
Prophecy from the book of Ezekiel.

He’s introduced to the musings of Jay Retard,
re-introduced to the detoxifying agents
responsible for whatever promising career path
best suited his youth, a quivering lower intestinal tract &
all the b12 he can stand to choke down.
The mountains are seasonably cold and remind him of
an unforgiving countenance belonging to a girl
from the past who still affects the future.
There’s bastard children from all
walks of life and being a prime example himself
all the flip-sides remind him of the ambiguousness
found in David Kronenberg’s dialogue
between the aristocracy and those
who demean/worship rats as currency-

Hold them tightly by the tail.
Hope to not be bit again
And again
            And again
                       And again.

In place of a promising career at a fish packing facility in Nanek, AK, Frankie Met is the author of A.P.C., The Anarchist's Blac Book of Poetry & forthcoming prose novella The Professional Donor. He is the co-founder of Kleft Jaw Press, a co-star w/ Bob Odenkirk on Better Call Saul (ok, slight exaggeration-featured extra/stand-in on the show,) & smokes hella weed. Frankie has been published in numerous online/print journals including: Kerouac's Dog Magazine, Unlikely Stories, Carcinogenic Poetry/Virgogray Press, Alt Poetics, Underground Voices, & Drunk Monkeys among others...