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Two Drinks in at the Oyster Bar photo

Before I die I want
to be crushed and
thrown in the garbage.

With the cousin
in town he
won't eat oysters,

and I have never had them,
on account of my ambition
or lackthereof.

Did you know he
had food poisoning?
This was in Panama City Beach.

They banned alcohol
there because of 
Spring Breakers,

so now there can be
no more wet
tee shirt contests.

He wants to know
what I do
and how I do it.

He is amazed that
I've gone to college
because I grew up poor.

He has his job
and I have mine.
Who gives a shit?

Am I the asshole
for not caring,
or does he care too much?

He makes $500,000/year
doing something,
software I think.

I do too.
I hit computers with a hammer
until they break.

“It looks like you'll have
to buy another one,”
I usually say, or

“There was nothing
we could do to save it;
we are sorry for your loss.”

By the way, the oysters 
covered in parmesan cheese
inspire suicidal ideation.

This is why this country sucks,
this country needs serious help,
I am not kidding.

I fall in and out of
the conversation based
on if he's looking.

Me, I am shocked by
the innocence of conversation,
the lack—really—

of climax in our words,
our interest petering out,
the 10-point buck 

mounted barside looks green
in the light, buck eyes sparkling,
as he talks about pizza,

about opening a pizza
place here because
“Pizza has high margins.”

There was a light that never
even got turned on in me—
I hate inspiration, I hate dreams.

I sense his disappointment
because I don't give a shit,
because he wants more out of life.

“Have you tried hookers?
Church? God? Your dead
mother? Pills? Coke? Crack?”

I could give him the list.
This is how we do things here,
you must not be from around here.

The cold outside breaks my heart.
The sky is night and looks like death,
a reminder that we are big.

The ground full of oyster shells
crackles like emphysema.