Safe Crackers in Miserbale Americana

by Ash Cole

Its about the safe ones.

Safe Crackers in Miserable Americana

See those guys are safe

See em, wrapped in their pit stops of donuts, plastic bottled milk (with the cow face on the front), bananas and long hour of paid fate and getting flab for hard eight hours of gerbil wheels, spraying smart phones, shaping cardboard and pressing metal or melting cellophane and waiting for the boss to complain and set a faster pace

Safe safe safe

So I have a few vices

But I'm not slamming heroin

Or sucking down grams of meth every other Saturday

So there is a safe guy in me

But I despise him and feast him out to seal

But see, em. In their trucks going toward Workland incorporated

They'll never loose

And if they do, then their backed by UI too and someone that loves them sustains them

Eat your double stack patties and win your favorite jersey

And go home and caress your fast burger thighs

"how was yer day hon? Swat that damn housefly? And why didn't your finish the dishes and I where's my Double Diamond or even Corona. You didn't get any Heiniken? Damn. I'm going on a beer run. I'll be back. Bye. Bye. "

See, they'll never loose

And if they do they have God on their back

And pray at the Super Burger joint where bible verses are written under the Shakes. With saints. And John three sixteens.

Go home. "Hey Honey How Was Yer Day? I'm back and I got my favorite."

Again and again and again until the heart stops

She can't explain or explore you

She can't complain or deplore you

She can't figure or she can't spend you

Squirreled out and cramped up in the back handcuffed

From her refrigerator

She can't explain how she spent the day trying to brake the combination lock on the freezer or microwave

Its all a haze

Overgrazing the carpet day to day, day in and out, as Days go by, to the One Day At A Time wine and Days of our Life scenes

Using her Hoover to clean it up and mute out the sounds of the NPR rant and agonizing routines

Tortured by the soccer practice or T-ball games

And the teachers complaints

And the report card marks

And the nightlight that won't let the dark be the dark

And the crack of light that spews in the bedroom why they don't make love

Blindfolding form all her drams and aspirations

And perfumed dove baths

And the raff of Sunday's calling

Or the husband who never stops balling

"Oh, I got my period today so don't look at me, okay."

"Huh?"

"You dumb ass." In an upward squealing tone

"You lying bitch." In a low pitch grown.

See, those guys are safe crackers

They got it all figured out

Oil changed on time

Gas filled the rim in their prime

Hand sanitizer and whims of possible scrapping togethers

The winning numbers for tonight's lottery

Their lucky hat, yoga mat, or couch leather,

Reading about Dumbo's magical feather

And the kids are glazed cause their one of four

See, those guys know they have won

With their DNA tagged babies, one of four overweight on Gatorade and peanut butter crackers or just peanut butter straight up

It'd be better to give them peanut butter injections

And see that's pain

It doesn't make you happen. Stop pretending with your sitcoms and three minute commercial breaks

Oh, no. The baby's awake. Lets just stay up and make angus steaks or chocolate cake

I mean really. You gave he or she a title.

They'll grow up and die just like you

And if you pray hard enough they get the morphine drip and the special blue

I mean come on. Big deal. . .

To be named after Uncle Dwayne (will feel pain in his back someday and never go out in the rain)

Sister Lucy (a looser like you) and all their Toy R Us runs

Doozies and perfectly timed routines sane and accepted

Perhaps he uses his 24hr fitness

Once or twice a weak

Goes to church on Sundays ten minutes late

And proclaims he's meek (or just weak)

Of Faith?

While his wife humps a loner and flushes for comfort

Vacuums his genes and washes her hands clean

And all for under two hundred and fifteen

And then, like the Chirstain she is, and never an Evil person, turns him out to sea

While going home and saying, "Husband please? May I have another twenty?"

See, those guys don't have degrees

Or doctorates or read the dictionary or Chekhov

Or even an once of daily poetry

They can't tell you where the Peach Orchard is in a Kurosawa film

Their just lost in His blizzard

Breathing and passing out, stepping toward base camp and trying reach the peak while a dead soldier comes back next week

And they ignore the hurting

They don't care or take it as worthy

Day to day they are eating you up like scurvy

They feed with deeds and hounds named Smoky or Treat

The same ol' Alpo and horse meat as last week

See, those guys have a minimum of five tacos a day

Spin the wheel at six pm

And call Granny on Holiday to say, "I still. . . . . love you."

Its amazing how still reads like steal

And not like steel or real or a nice warm shared meal

See, those guys work for construction companies and American Steel

Don't have time to help the Fair Deal

And never break the Decalogue

Just scrum through it like a deadly eel

Or never once miss a four square meal

They might roll through a stop

Use a mop

Or call the cops

Get you high

Take advantage (it warps judgment)

Fedex your herb from Colorado to DFW, so you can belly up

But it'll never be real, it never feel real and it never makes you real, you always be a fake

They'll never have more than a feel

Or vice that's really that interesting

But they'll judge other vices

And poison the mice and ride the lice (creator of our humanity and universal plans)

And maybe be too nice

And splice our universe

And use and entice

With everything nice

See, those guys live in shame

And curse the derange

And never read anything that strange

See, those guys will die in warm beds, go to their plots under large carved dots, to make a date, or name

Divorce or wed

Spend their days in their heads

Calling the head John and naming everybody wrong

Just call it all in

See, those guys are left alone

As the morphine takes it toll

And they don't feel death's tug

Nor do they understand the motives of Cain

And all his naproxen sodium (Big Apes Yellowy Edger Redneck-Batty Aching Yelling Relief) redemption and pain and swallow their Aleve or green watery bullet shaped pills without an allergic alert or shock or three or more alcoholic jerks

See, those guys are left alone

Their really best friends with that Asian guy Mr. Iso Ellate and polish lady Miss Konsole Atory and her best Doctor Dr. Conn and his assistant Mrs. Finn and what their Meant to do

Name

And diagnose

Nothings more dangerous and tortuous then being locked away

See, those guys are lab rats with pay

Mixed on the riches non-depression cocktail

With the max dose

With more lithium to kill an army of horses

And more bothersomethoughtsthatwon'tgoaway pills

That R worth a million deals

And endless Toy dollars

Printed by God

And blessed by Us

See those guys claimed to be saved under the Eyes of Yahweh

And make signs with their hands and pens that read real words:

S avior E verybody R ose T o R ate A merica's L ong I ndependent N obodies E rections

They don't feel death's pain

They don't know the motives of Cain

For they are the land of the living

And aren't giving

Blessed with sin and mayhem and shame of these summons and go back to practice in May

And will turn back now or then

And Oh, Say

They're laughing at someone like me

Write me off as crazy

Never hold me up too long

And even say I exist all wrong

See, those guys are safe

And are miles away from Risk

One day their light will burn out

And you can see em tsk

And as they get older they strut and hiss

And start to miss the real tricks (that count)

And become more like a cat than a mouse

And are slowly losing their house

See, those guys have to change

Because their old ladies are insane

And can't get the headmaster rearranged

And want them buttered up in pain

Drive forward, back up and turn in

Your video games of modernized warfare and three D grease-ball loser thumbing away at their fake gangster clans

And blast away at nothing but static and nowhere plans

See, those guys are the real deranged

Stranger than strange

Cuckoo as hell

Spinning alarm bells

Screaming "you fail" and "loser" yells

Hollering in hell at that that won't sell

And maybe they'll Merc you or stop a Turk

And at the end asking, "Why did He win?" and why did I "fail"

See, those guys stay at home with double chins

Lined in a drone

And watch it spin and spin

Never took a hold of a real physical dream

So the horse doldrums let them pretend

See, those guys just end and end

And wait for their Savior to come in

And tip the pizza delivery guy a ten

And watch sport center or ESPN

See, they can't feel their fuse

They don't know what wasting the blues

Because that's the First, Middle and Last name of their friends

And they are cursed to stay exactly the same

On myspace and a million different apps

Margaritavilla or Shiner Bock away (waist away in their little sips of salt and pretzel living) and un-flown flaps

Just like the safety net lies and say the could be thin

While their guts stick out like their chins

And they spend millions on nothing

See, those guys are safe

See, those guys are wafers

See, those guys are escapes

See, those guys are wastes

See, those guys have credit

See, those guys have cards

See, those guys have cartoon cars

See, those guys have big wheeled trucks

See, those guys fly planes

See, those guys ride neverending trains

See, those guys are well trained

See, those guys hide under rain

See, those guys know shame

See, those guys kill game

See, those guys won't blame/ See, those guys make haste/ See, those guys are great/ See, those guys are proud of their own race/ See, those guys got no place. (11-15-11 3:30AM)