The bald spotted hipsters of Brooklyn. The thick glassed girls wearing your grandmothers clothing they purchased for more than she spent on her entire wardrobe at the Buffalo Exchange in today’s dollars I could write you a poem on a twenty dollar bill but not take you out on the town with it. Which is a problem since the mating dance is not a walk in the park, which albeit and according to one elderly woman who spoke with a corrective finger is rich with rapists, a word I learned never to use since you no one tells you the first version draft of their over edited lives.

No one hates what they don’t love, said someone who I loved with the fervor that Fahrenheit demands to be replaced with something that offers more than arbitrary standards. But who wants to follow in Canada’s snowy footsteps? Who doesn’t ride a horse or drive a car that doesn’t smell like someone on the subway didn’t eat a gallon of feta cheese yesterday prior to their unfortunate accident with manure that the cow never dreamed would become a commodity.

I want genetic engineering to catch up just enough for cows to see the humor in the fact that we harvest their shit, drink from their teats, eat their babies at exorbitant four star prices and spend our lives plotting how to find a someone who will unbuckle their skin.

If you hated this poem more than you loath staff infections, check out this book. 

If you liked it like the choclate ice scream monster loves ice cream, check out this one. 

Whatever you do, do NOT click here!