Brian Rosenberger


I miss the dude who drank a pint of Jim Bean
on summer weekends at the beach,
not by himself necessarily.
He had friends, was willing to share, 
and rose like Lazarus from the sand,
fresh from the grave, with no place to go.
Life was easier then. Less demands.
Less expectations. 

I miss the dude who loved comic books,
wrestling, horror movies, and Heavy Metal,
the glory days of VHS and CDs.
When you could smoke in clubs and restaurants, 
when kids went to school and the worst
they had to deal with were bullies, 
instead of being target practice.

This dude drives 45 minutes to work
and at least 45 minutes back.
He hates his job, tolerates his co-workers,
and barely survives his daily drive
without inflicting physical violence
on his fellow commuters.
God knows he thinks about it often enough,
but his road rage remains internalized. 

This dude spends his time analyzing stocks,
worrying about the cost of being a homeowner –
dead trees to be cut down, house to be painted,
the fridge dying a slow death,
etc, etc, fucking etc. 

This dude scrolls through the tits and asses
on Instagram instead of fucking his wife.
He masturbates when he can maintain an erection.
He blames it on his high blood pressure
and means to reduce salt, get more exercise,
switch to red wine instead of bourbon,
and finally see a damn doctor.

This dude…
He sucks.

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