TWO POEMS BY BRANDON SCOTT GORRELL
Potato chips are guilty pleasures. Ripped out of the ground they are chopped up. From there preparation bakes, fries, and generally fucks up potato chips. The plants get no say in their future. Neither do the tobacco leaves. Cigarettes are expensive things to sell due to extensive taxes. States love cigarettes for the taxes they bring. A side benefit of cigarette taxes is the ironic ability to finance anti-smoking aids. If nobody ever smoked then where would the beautiful edgy commercials come from? Anti-smoking ads are art in a way. Both potato chips and cigarettes serve as comforts in different ways. Together the two try to alleviate the pain of being alive. Such things attract sin taxes because sin ought to be taxes. Good behavior unfortunately receives no subsidies. Let the potato chips fall where they may. Masters of none the potato chips long to be taken out of their misery.
Book readings are wild things. Audiences for book readings are full of rowdy unkempt individuals. Such things are normal way of life for any particular author. Published books require huge audiences to hoot and holler, respectively. Despite all the evidence to the contrary most writers lead typically quiet lives. They do normal things, go to the store, buy things, consume products, and plan events with friends. Many writers hardly ever write about any of their friends. When their friends get a ‘shout-out’ in a book it is something they celebrate. Glad to be forever immortalized in a single page or multiple pages or even a fleshed-out character, it is something that provides pride to otherwise pride-lacking individuals.
Jackets are necessary for any book. Books grow cold outside. Books require jackets to avoid catching colds. Hardly anybody cares when a book gets sick. Trees are parents of every book but they passed away to give life to these word depositories. Everything about it is highly unfortunate. Yet for any sort of advancement in the literary world a few trees have to be felled. Such things are typical. Life can be cruel towards innocent plant life. For plants there is no relief whatsoever.
Mold breaks that mold. It lives everywhere. Mold gives not one fuck. When mold invades a household it does it with a smile on its mold, crusted face. Capitalism loves mold. People get jobs ‘taking care’ of mold in a house. Individuals dealing with mold are unable to handle the intensity of mold. They go out to spend money in restaurants improving the local economy. Such things are normal. The world is an ecosystem full of madness. Everything is related. Nothing is left out.