Tyler Fugazzie

when people say middle america
are they talking about the physical middle of america
kansasish
or are they talking about the average american
as in a lowest common denominator type thing

how about
middle finger america
can we do a middle finger america
maybe two middle fingers america

when people raise their middle finger
are they doing it to exercise
exercise freedoms
are they doing it to express
express frustrations

what is it about the middle finger
we find so offensive
what is it about middle america
we find so offensive

i don’t know
which is which and what is what
i can’t tell
which wood this is and what smells these are
i don’t know
how i can capture
this damp wood stenk
that reminds me of shore houses and sure

how can i inform
the record store owner
i prefer the aroma
i don’t know
if this is the exact smell locked in my memory
maybe it’s the tripsoaked underboards of a prelife sail that brought me here

my times at beaches
were stuntedly beautiful
i’ve made memories there
i’ve felt more and more and more
than i do anywhere else

please record store owner
please tell me this smell

my mood ring is a strobe light
we can flash mob dance to it
we can get the crowd to join

so many ads everywhere i can’t block
they make me nauseous

so many ads poorly-designed that i can’t walk past
they’re obnoxious

so many ads disguising themselves as something else
they’re so truth-toxic

so many ads missing the point
they won’t get profits

oh
no

this world is leaking bad ads
someone needs to find and fix the faucet

four peaches for a dollar?

i want to move to wherever peaches grow, wherever the best peaches come from.

i once had an amazing peach. i was visiting a friend in maryland. it was from a farm. it was sitting warm on his kitchen counter but it was juicer than anything i could’ve expected.

in pursuit of delicious fruit, is that a valid reason to move? has anyone moved for less?

the markets are nice but i want to go to the source.

low back muscle is unsettled,
it had gone unvetted for too long.

i’m sweating, smelling chicken, cutting
through its raw thigh
remembering things could be worse.

i wonder if i can commit seppuku
through my left butt cheek
but the blade of steel would break
on my buns of steel.

ready the toasted buns
this chicken’s almost ready
stab it with a fork and plate it
this kid’s almost completely cooked.

hibernate in pleasing snowplush robes on recliner chairs

slipper from fuzzy couch potato,
to furry loungeberry


micromassages and muscle cuddles
from nanofiber blankets and memory foam pillow palaces


an unbelievable comfort sone 


enduring conditioned hair and
chocolate-covered fruits
lazily luxury 
harsh is not in my vocabulary

Even though it’s June, which means the beginning of summer for Northern Americans, there’s no reason to step outside. Literally everything bad happens outside. You can be hit by a car. You can be mugged. You can catch a viral infection.

Stay inside. Better yet, if you have curtains or shades, roll those things down and create a dark, cavernous vibe in your house, dorm, or apartment. You want to shun the light from entering your private space. You need all the room you can get for music and television and computers and reading and writing and painting and passivity in all of its forms.

You know what else happens when you go outside? You get heat stroke. You get sunburned. Both of these lead to cancer, which means both of these lead to death. I think sacrificing hours of Vitamin D doses is worth not dying, don’t you?

tonight my lamp is lying right
behind me face and
my jackolantern grin 
replaces a ruined fate
for when i smile i am plotting
gardens inside of eyes

There’s a belief floating around out in the world that urges us to stop defining ourselves by what we do, but I believe we need to stop defining ourselves by who we are.

In the book Siddhartha, one of the characters compares the self to a river.

Allow me to expand on this. Imagine you’re staring at a spot in a river, a sliver of the river if you will. If you’re lucky enough to border a river, go outside and pick a spot to stare at. In the imagined or real scenario, you’re witnessing an amazing thing. You’re witnessing something that is at once the same and different. Think about it, you’re staring at the same spot, on the same river; this location and identity doesn’t change. However, you’re also always seeing new water. The water that flowed by your stare five minutes ago is not the same water currently passing by and it will be new water five minutes from now.

This is how we are as humans. You are always you, but the definition of you is in constant flux. You’re experiencing new input and new data every nanosecond of your waking, and even slumbered, existence. Whether or not you’re conscious of everything that’s happening. Reading this is already changing you. It’s new input. Suppose you reject what I say, well now you are a you who has read and rejected Tyler’s view. No hard feelings. If you’ve previously read this same piece four times, the next time you read it will be your first fifth time reading it.

Many people you encounter will box you and label you, as you are likely to do to others. It’s natural. I can’t comprehend the amount of neural processing power it would require to retain conceptions of everyone I meet as deeply complex and nuanced as the ones I hold for myself. It would be a gift on one hand, but that kind of boundless empathy would probably paralyze you.

We might even box ourselves: confusing our memories, moments, or beliefs for who we are. For mistaking our yesterday selves for our today selves and our today selves for our tomorrow selves and our tomorrow selves for our five-years-from-now selves.

We are never done. We are never ending.