You Ought to Know
26 September 2011
By Jason Fresh
So often I go on describing what I know. So often I go walking off, walking away from her as she describes herself, hiding anything from an argument, not allowing her to form a sentence because she is wrong. There is nothing worth describing anymore. What am I going to describe? Feelings? Truth? Ask any hamburger-eating motherfucker and he’ll describe it like he has caught a glimpse at the silver lining, danced in shadows with his ancestors. But there is no sense looking for it. The truth – no sense looking for that shit. Why? Because the act of looking for the truth makes it worthless. Maybe. Maybe it makes your lies more vibrant. The Queen of the Pub howls out burps with fart-laden, heavy, grilled cheese butt. She trots to and from the restroom, forgetting to wipe her ass with as much attention as she cleans her reputation. Pot-smoking, nymphomaniac yoga monsters bend, fold, mold, and adore the ego constructed out of material cooler than yours. Beer-saluting Demons engage you with looks that make you question your presence. Do you really know what the fuck you are doing? And you move to a spot cooler than the bar you’ve been at for hours. And the beers taste the same. And you wonder about your death. Your power. Your faith. And I still don’t know what love is. Do you? You don’t have a fucking clue. Do you?
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