Balogna and hot dogs are god's noble blue collar meats.
They get the ugly, thankless jobs that nature did until we killed her, outsourced her, crushed her with tank treads and replaced her with a miracle of soviet era automation designed by the germans, made by the chinese, shipped by once-proud thai peoples, assembled by grunting aussies, and handed off to the regular malcontentious beta male fantasy: wonderbread white, true blue-blooded incest children of the american dream, making fifteen fifty an hour to do their part turning the crank to make the good lord mother's green and flowery corpse shift endlessly, shaking out the parasites for us to eat.

this is a fantastic run-on sentence; this is the collective dreamlessness brought on by lithium and greater, slowly beading together in a cauldron at the bottom of the hubric ocean. Year after year, it gets bigger, more intelligent, more aware, more pissed off. Year after year we have to all try a little harder to pretend that this crime -- this congealed pending doom -- does not exist, lest we come to terms with our mortality in a world that's supposed to let us live young and bright forever.

Such absurdity is our condition: malleable and plastiform, just a little bit melted -- a little bit twisted and off like the hollow eyes of a loved one that has betrayed us.
Absuridty is to be human, pushed so far from our natural state that now no one's quite sure what's right anymore.

No one knows where home is.
So home is the cessation of this wandering life. Home is a death rattle, a return to cradle: a peace, a simultaneous stillness and oscillation that is the everything we've taken brief turns touching in life or in our dreams. It is the dissolve of the idea of self, as our container crumbles back into the dirt. 

All things are a part of you.
You are a part of all things.
But we can't find our way home somehow.

Tragic. ☲