without means, do it

in the 3 am dim
I did not have the strength to listen again.

see,
this is the con with eating your crow
alone. it’s lonesome.

better off to have the friends over, turn on
a screen or two, break out the bags
of drugs, crack open the cold ones.

make things loud, for godssakes.
otherwise, yes, the listening
to creaky Cole Porter records

spin an old memory of doing it,
falling in to an old experiment,
de-lovely, anything goes for a bit…

is a pretty type of painful. ‘I would
prefer not to,’ thank you very much,
I say to myself, scrivenerly.

can’t you tell?

It’s a burnt orange sky– like,
signaling-hell-orange with a purple threat.

My windows are tinted with sleet.

Those lit portals from the projects
seem like watch-posts,
or something. A hard thing is,
wondering whether or not to
still be sad.

^#^#^#^#^#^#^#^

The music sounds tinny and bleak,
but it is maybe one of your favorite groups.

If you do not eye-roll at the occasional bad
accent I don’t want to hear about it. This will

depress me. There should always be someone
coaxing from you a happy reaction; your true

laugh makes friends and family brighter. Test it.

Don’t Cry. Shane is Making a Tier List: Smash Ultimate Edition

Tires Don Exit

first

 

Be that as it may,

I think just as many people come to this blog to read poetry as they do for killer gaming techniques (ie, no one). So, I decided to give the public what they want and create a tier list for the 74+ characters in Super Smash Brothers: Ultimate.

It’ll be… a rather slow process to say the least. I mean, I’ve got over 70 goddamn characters to play and give my half-baked opinion on. Not all half-assed things can be done in a short amount of time. This half-assed project will take… jeez, at least a few months.

But check in every other day or so. I’ll be continuously adding characters to the tier list and giving my impressions on them as I play through the game. Comments and critiques are always appreciated. Also, I’m just one wrong person and these are my wrong opinions. Take them with a wrong grain of salt.

You can view the tier list and how it’s progressing here.

 

 

these days

bubble tea in your belly, we roll together
on warm sheets, not washed in a while.

days like these, you find fun where you can
in times like these. laughter–‘please,’ she
said, so you do, or rather, I do. I did. we could

run away just me and you, go to New Zealand
or Canada: let’s do it, let’s become a Cole Porter song,
a Joni Mitchell jam. I haven’t had a case of you yet,
but a few bottles is enough to fuck me up. I’ll always be in the bar

and you should know that about me. at words pathetic
I’m so poetic, it’s grating, I’m sure.

tapioca is good in tea
but that’s about it, we both agree.

it is hard to know when to

take it easy flatfoot jack,
and stop blaming it on the bossa nova. the old school
was bad and we all know it, and they knew it too.

the climate today is women and those
who don’t believe them. monsters among men,
or maybe the latter is just made of the former.

‘god only knows,’ Brian Wilson spills out, but
god, I can’t muster a smile today. anyway,

her boot would look good on a throat,
as she burns the house down, chewing on
a cigar, sipping from a nalgene filled with tears.

she could
light it with that torch she always carries. flames need fanning these days, it seems.

drafted

boys will be boys or girls
or ho hum, anything they want

to be. girls will do the same.
cars tackle pedestrians or

protesters or just squirrels,
and dogs and cats sometimes.

trucks take a life easy, they
being so big, fast, high up off

the ground. look around friend,
see how beautiful Super Target can

be at night? everything from jewelry,
to artwork, to chips in cans,

–oh!– they’re out of ping pong
paddles. s’oh well, we’ll just

grab some at Spec’s, they always
have table tennis gear there.

this sky is navy and vast, above the super
shopping center, and it feels good to hold
their hand. we smile in the parking lot.

y’know, I’m not sure what Mr. Tillman
is talking about. how can one be bored in the U.S.A.?

fucking hipsters

It was a rough fall and an even harder
winter, but now spring is here. The mumble

manic emo rappers are still raining down from
the SoundCloud, and she’s one of them; green

long hair with with pink wisps strewn about:
lil lex, no caps, except her album is called A PRO.

_+_+_+_

Billy and lex got married in a chunk of trees,
and I only got an invite because back in

high school I made out with the bride behind some
bleachers at a football game. Who remembers who won?

You had a black Run-DMC shirt that was cut up and sleeveless
with a scarlet bra that didn’t have any wire; you had a flute

of something that bubbled, but I never saw any glassware around.
after the ceremony everyone partied in the greenbelt, and Sasha

stayed around not drinking, but picking up trash with a plastic bag.
We smoked a joint together and I asked her your name, “who, her?”

“yeah,”
“I dunno,” and then I helped her pick up trash for a bit as the light faded

behind the mixed native and invasive trees. She had yellow flats
with a blue flower print; I had black chucks, predictably, horribly–I wore slacks,
and my shirt had a collar, but it would not stay tucked.

later, in firelight, lil lex threw off her wedding day tube top
and Billy laughed and poured Prosecco

all over himself. they kissed, and we all applauded and you were still
there, a wry and joyous look on your face, your bangs banging against

my blurred, drunk vision. There was a milky, full moon and a clear sky,
and it was a blessedly cool night. Billy started to howl, you yawped,

and song-of-myself I swear, that made me stumble. No, it wasn’t the booze
or drugs, it was that noise from your mouth. I heard your voice and fell.