Cutting Grass in the Cemetery

Who decided you were good enough to be cutting grass in the cemetery? And who decided you were bad enough to be in prison? All it really takes is the unanimous decision of twelve of the living and any one of us could be holding the weed eater. 

And what does is feel like to be in an outside that is not barb wired, but still among the dead? To labor like a free man and wake up in a locked closet? All it really takes is a bad decision, a choice, a friend who robs the Taco Bell while you sit idly in the car. 

I see your head turn as I drive by, air conditioner on, radio low. Do you see me or see through me? Can you allow yourself to think about it without diving face first into the freshly dug grave? All it really takes is one step in the wrong direction. 

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Buy Their Drinks: Notes to My Eighteen Year-Old Self

You are not terribly clever, although you may one day be. Today is not that day, so enjoy being this age.

No one cares what you think about anything, unless you agree with them, and then you are clever. 

Safety is a lie we tell ourselves to keep our blood pressure low. You are not safe and neither is anyone else. 

She is not worth your time and you are not worth hers. Work on being alone until you’re not. 

Over the next eighteen years the things you believe will fall apart, rebuild, and fall apart again. 

The sooner you become comfortable with this, the less of an asshole you’ll be. You don’t have a truth franchise. 

The list of reasons to drive off a bridge will only grow longer if that’s all you write down. 

Once you’ve lived twice as long as you already have, you’ll be glad you didn’t give up. 

If you’re lucky, a few other people will be glad you didn’t either. These people are good. Buy their drinks. 

The Hearse Graveyard

Driving by you know you have to go back. Go back on a Saturday when the people who work there are gone. 

Slip into the parking lot as casually as you can. You can always say you were lost, like a child. 

Headlights busted by rowdy youth. Rowdy youth whose great-greats rode in the back. 

Tires bald then brittle. Then brittle creeps up the doors and windows, the hood and roof. 

There was a day when they shined. They shined and carried the brittle, bald departed one last time. 

Rides of dignity with the left behind dressed in jet black. Jet black like the paint long since faded. 

But who buries the cars that buried the people? The people that built the cars are dead.