poetry?

oh how i hate how your perfect lawn hides cigarette butts and various vitriole so well.

this time its for real.

me and you are done.  thanks for the memories, and any other cliche i could think of.

your facade is smeared with too much sweat and irritation that the Pacific winds can’t help.

good luck with the bikers, the longshoremen, the gangsters, the ice cream men and their bells, and good luck with all of those boring rich people and their hawking ways.

So what if i watch my kid from afar.

You are bullshit point fermin, san pedro.