One day i’ll get what i deserve.
Karma’s a bitch, and time’s an asshole,
so i’ll kiss & make up with them each time i fuck up
and we’ll fake nice.
By morning, we’ll all grab brunch at succotash
and jesus will chaperone and it’ll all be grand
because nothing’s grander than the grand view of
double spaced 12 point font and mla format
of bullshitting a good rep with god’s children
and all their glowing friends.
A straight edge a few degrees off center and a broken compass
jump hand-in-hand off the ledge
the former drew and into conclusions the latter found
and way down into mutual solitude,
because who needs community when you’ve got commiserators?
Who needs a comforter when you’ve got a million sheets
with a billion holes and a phone charger that reaches
to a comfortable spot on your bed?
Money is everything
and success is the rest
so i’ll rest in peace
knowing the perpetual gun to my head
and my portrait on the wall are both drawing a blank.
One day i’ll get what i deserve
because i know that what i do,
what i’m going to do,
and what i’ve always done is nothing.
Karma’s a bitch and time’s an asshole
so i’ll sit with them in the principal’s office
as they take far sides of the sofa
and harmonize sol la ti do,
screaming out s-e-l-l-o-u-t.
It’s to myself, really.
I’m my own queen; i’m my own pawn.
I’ve taken myself, and i’m missing from her too.
And if karma sends me a sober boy
who won’t scar me with red cars
and the moon and the stars,
if time will give me laugh lines
and a lucid loft with climbing vines,
i can’t take it,
because no one’s there to put these dreams in amber,
placid and preserved.
"It couldn’t possibly be jubilee,"
my family observed,
"she moved out years ago,
and she got what she deserved."