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CODY WEBER IS THINGS

The Difference Between Paris And A Large Number 7
You know what I realized today?I’m just too damn American.I like super-sized meals with 62 oz. sodasand I really enjoy eating it allwhile I watch badreality TV.
And I think Paris looks pretentiouswith people that are somehow proudof the uninspired architectureand of all the god-awfulfrench cinema.I’ve read that many people get depressedwhen they visit a foreign placeand it doesn’t live up tothe fairy taleAnd that’s why I like America, too.Because people come here and think,Man, that wasn’t as bad as I thoughtit would be.We are trained from the start to be this wayto have some hidden prideabout where our parentsfucked.And I’ve trained myself out of it by paying very close attentionto the way we eat atone another.but if I had to choose an Iowan cornfieldor the cold beaches of Lake Michiganor even the ninth ward of New Orleansover Paris;it wouldn’t take long.I have grease running through my veins at all timesconsuming super-sized meals and giving myselftype-two diabetes.Maybe that’s causing the nausea I feel wheneverI hear people romanticize some foreign placethey’ve never even been to:No matter where you goand no matter how fast you runyou’ll never escape where you wereand who you were always boundto be.

The Difference Between Paris And A Large Number 7

You know what I realized today?
I’m just too damn American.

I like super-sized meals with 62 oz. sodas
and I really enjoy eating it all
while I watch bad
reality TV.

And I think Paris looks pretentious
with people that are somehow proud
of the uninspired architecture
and of all the god-awful
french cinema.

I’ve read that many people get depressed
when they visit a foreign place
and it doesn’t live up to
the fairy tale

And that’s why I like America, too.
Because people come here and think,
Man, that wasn’t as bad as I thought
it would be.

We are trained from the start to be this way
to have some hidden pride
about where our parents
fucked.

And I’ve trained myself out of it
by paying very close attention
to the way we eat at
one another.

but if I had to choose an Iowan cornfield
or the cold beaches of Lake Michigan
or even the ninth ward of New Orleans
over Paris;

it wouldn’t take long.

I have grease running through my veins at all times
consuming super-sized meals and giving myself
type-two diabetes.

Maybe that’s causing the nausea I feel whenever
I hear people romanticize some foreign place
they’ve never even been to:

No matter where you go
and no matter how fast you run

you’ll never escape where you were
and who you were always bound
to be.

It’s Not Worth What It Costs To Have
I’m so fucking tired of talking about moneylike it holds dominion over everythingand takes precedence overall else. The dollar sign is a crucifixand your bible is a list ofreceiptstransactionsATM statementsThings pile up in the housefor that momentary, fleeting feelingof reliefcomfortand gainonly to wake up and do it all overearn, buy, rinse, repeatalways chasing thenewest thingsshining like the morning sunsore gums tired of their incessantjawing.And since there’s no time to enjoy what you already haveyou scoff at the notion that maybejust possiblyyou might have enough.No.  
You call it Catholic guilt, butyou don’t seem all that ashameduntil you’re out of money.You call it growing up, but I can practically see the childhood envyof a three bedroom housewith two carsand a picket fencea wrap-around porchand a detached garagethe doors raise and your enthusiasmstarts to slip.All you want is everything you don’t have.Forever lost in your own consumptionpaying close attention to incoming trendsand outgoing utility bills.If this is what it means to be aliveIf this is all it ends up being about:the chasethe unyielding desireof the fleeting feelingthat accompanies buying something new.then what the fuck is the point?Nobody is ever happy and everybody wants too much.

It’s Not Worth What It Costs To Have

I’m so fucking tired of talking about money
like it holds dominion over everything
and takes precedence over
all else. 

The dollar sign is a crucifix
and your bible is a list of
receipts

transactions
ATM statements

Things pile up in the house
for that momentary, fleeting feeling
of relief
comfort
and gain

only to wake up and do it all over
earn, buy, rinse, repeat
always chasing the
newest things

shining like the morning sun
sore gums tired of their incessant
jawing.

And since there’s no time to enjoy what you already have
you scoff at the notion that maybe
just possibly
you might have enough.

No.  

You call it Catholic guilt, but
you don’t seem all that ashamed
until you’re out of money.

You call it growing up, but 
I can practically see the childhood envy
of a three bedroom house
with two cars
and a picket fence

a wrap-around porch
and a detached garage

the doors raise and your enthusiasm
starts to slip.

All you want is everything you don’t have.

Forever lost in your own consumption
paying close attention to incoming trends
and outgoing utility bills.

If this is what it means to be alive
If this is all it ends up being about:
the chase
the unyielding desire
of the fleeting feeling
that accompanies buying something new.

then what the fuck is the point?

Nobody is ever happy and everybody wants too much.

Tacit
earthworms to dead leavesand water on the sidewalklaw firms and time thievesdrowning in the small talkloose-leaf and graphiteare married in the mirein grief and in spiteare carried through the firebar bands and cheap ginthe scent of disenchantment red hands for bruised skina trade of tacit consentand not a single thing said aboutthe way it had to be.

Tacit

earthworms to dead leaves
and water on the sidewalk
law firms and time thieves
drowning in the small talk

loose-leaf and graphite
are married in the mire
in grief and in spite
are carried through the fire

bar bands and cheap gin
the scent of disenchantment 
red hands for bruised skin
a trade of tacit consent

and not a single thing said about
the way it had to be.

And Only I Remain
I remember lullabies like thunderstorms and tape deckswith spools of film unwound only to bleed out like a poetAnd time is just a vibration that echoes as a wooferGliding up, and sliding down, yet only wrinkles show itTo be is magic, tred-and-true, but nothing is deliberateand everyone is tragedy with brand new clothes and contractsAnd I am just a broken man, with cigarettes and itchy skinA thin veneer of smoke that kills, but for now, only distractsSo, I suppose that truth is good, but it’s rarely necessaryA stagnant lie is better when what’s true is always changingAnd with this hand, I write to who?  I guess it doesn’t matter,what with all the letters and their meanings rearrangingAm I the only one on Earth that doesn’t seem to change with thepassing of moments?

And Only I Remain

I remember lullabies like thunderstorms and tape decks
with spools of film unwound only to bleed out like a poet
And time is just a vibration that echoes as a woofer
Gliding up, and sliding down, yet only wrinkles show it

To be is magic, tred-and-true, but nothing is deliberate
and everyone is tragedy with brand new clothes and contracts
And I am just a broken man, with cigarettes and itchy skin
A thin veneer of smoke that kills, but for now, only distracts

So, I suppose that truth is good, but it’s rarely necessary
A stagnant lie is better when what’s true is always changing
And with this hand, I write to who?  I guess it doesn’t matter,
what with all the letters and their meanings rearranging

Am I the only one on Earth that doesn’t seem to change with the
passing of moments?