Tyler Fugazzie

Buddy Holly was the original Mac DeMarco and 22 was his final number. Everyday seems a little shorter. Every time I turn a new number, I conclude that this current number is my favorite. I’m the benefactor of a bias towards the now and new, and looking at the date on my phone reminds me that I have no desire to apply the scientific method to my life. I’m going through a process of unschooling, mistake-driven self-discovery, and fate-rattled acceptance of uncertainty. I’m zooming in for closer inspection on the state of my organic matter. This happens with Mandelbrot precision because birthdays are a great excuse to self-perfect. The world population was at 5.3 billion people when I was born, which is a lot of voters, and I’m sketching a business plan based on knowing the world’s true population at any given moment. Do you think you would die if billions of people sang happy birthday to you?

The Empire State Building is a whore. Accepting millions of strangers with little to no protection. If you’ve ever loved the Empire State Building, you must be a blithering, drooling mess, cursing all the mixtapes you made and letters you wrote. Aren’t you jealous of all these nameless passengers? But buildings are immune to guilt. It will never feel bad and it will never feel the same way about you. The Empire State Building has no issue with its fame. It handles celebrity much better than any moving patch of flesh. When they invented mail in Philadelphia, they did not anticipate the many satellite dishes, water towers, and potted plants that would spring up on the tops of buildings looking toward the Empire State Building. Height equals might, and this world is more internet than inorganic.

Oh shit oh jeez
I’m a certified machine
Turnt in da club
Crush a hunnid bottles
Moving models off my lap
Signing autographs
Doing dab
Sipping lean
Pick the pocket of the meanest
I’m the matador
Big bull in the china shop
Wreckless with my weapon
Cuz I kept it in my necklace
Now the models screaming
As I’m bleeding
But I’m too yams for that
Plug the wound with some diamonds
Now I’m vibing on this beat
As the VIP turning beet red
Someone’s calling ambulance
But I’m just doing dirty dancing

Life’s a dairy paradise
But these daily parasites
Are really fucking up my night
Get these normies out my face
My squad runs this place
They want us for our magic
And our dank, rare memes
And they’re unable to experience it
My whole life’s a fable
I’m the modern Clark Gable
I get fresh diamonds to my table
And I eat em til I die
Then I pay for resurrections
Because Jesus is my guy
Better than a billionaire
Everyone remembers me and
I can buy the afterlife

If you want to fuck your kids up for life, let them play in puddles. Lace up their yellow rubber boots, toss on their yellow raincoat, flop on their yellow rain hat, and send this little moving traffic warning out into the world. Tell them, you can splash in puddles if you do it quickly, but do not play in the puddle.

Playing in puddles is the number one cause of saggy butts.

Treat it like smoking. Show them photos of saggy butts. Ask someone with a saggy butt to rub their saggy butt on your child. Gross them out so they understand. Snap their sense of reality. Teach them that when you have a saggy butt, sitting becomes an expression of sadness. Talk to your kids and help them maintain poster-worthy posteriors.

There was an old soldier boy
Who climbed the fields
To get above the world
And rub his musket

He never once shot it
From the day his daddy handed it to him
To the day he was stabbed in battle

He never once left home without it
For him
A day without rubbing his musket was a day without breathing

We’re all
rock stars…

…if you think about it

blowin coke, smoking weed, texting girls, posting memes, browsing reddit, feeling bad, losing sleep, getting mad, having fights, living nights, cashing checks, to the government, making moves, breaking bread, laughing loud, getting head, doing dances, taking orders, dying dreams, breathing borders, mulling it, over over, losing waves, fucking snorkels, coding lessons, bad investments, liking photos, finding faith, repeating phrases, timely phases, mummy mouthed, buttered-down, break dancing, paradises, new devices, vices vices, lots of vices

we treat
our curiosities
to meals
stuffed with answers
which never settle

we beat our selves
with seats and broken bones
to get the meals back
in one piece

we question those
who never eat

as good times leave
i’m reminded
how little i want to make the most of my life

wasting time is underrated
but there are simply
not enough hours in the day to waste

Word of the Day Poem
March 6th, 2016

february getting an extra day
is built on so many dependencies:
a leap year dependent on a calendar
calendars dependent on social contract
social contract dependent on lack of alien contact
alien contact dependent on abandoning heliocentric views
abandoning heliocentric views dependent on
believing in the flatness of earth
flatness of the earth dependent on circular reasoning
circular reasoning dependent on planets orbiting their star
these orbits a little too long
for our calendars to make sense of
a leap day a little too early
for the very beginning of a leap year
each year a little too unfair to february
it probably can’t keep up with its fellow months
because it’s too dependent

why are skyscrapers
allowed to block the horizon?
why are the obstructions
accepted as opportunities?
why does sunshine
bring less than it used to?
why does tomorrow
offer only another tomorrow?
why is the skyline
seen as something to swallow?
why do we stomach
held breath?
why do we tolerate
these ambling deaths?