“Blessed are the meek:for they shall inherit the earth.”
I tore the label off an Evian bottle,
Expected the plastic to scream Styrofoam condolences.
There was an authoritative black smoke present
That exiled the clouds,
Like tires ablaze in an empty suburban street.
*We’ll always rationalize consciousness
Because the truth comes from masturbating condolences.
Here’s what the plastic asked:
“Money can be recycled?”
Here’s how the pragmatic realist replied:
“Only on Thursdays, and that time slot is minute
And based off the proxy’s availability.”