Me and my dear friend, Logan Custer, decided to make a page for Rant The Ant on Facebook, where we’ll post funny pictures, memes, etc. Help us grow the page and LIKE US ON FACEBOOK!
RANT’S ALSO ON TWITTER FOR ALL YOU TWITTER FOLKS.
my skin is jaundiced
my eyes are black
this labyrinth it writhes
its corners are sharp
and these golden pebbles
seem to lead to
nowhere at all
i’ve never felt so hungry
my voice echoes down the halls
and the ghosts are on to me
these colorful apparitions
are out for blood
they multiply with time
and my robotic motions
these spirits are on my back
i can’t run forever
the whole world is blue
the tables have turned
but my time is slipping
these phantoms meander
from my gut
back into their cages
and silently and shifty-eyed
back into this maze
they walk through walls
i fold in on myself
on an eight-bit screen
COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012
do you know what it’s like to tear tickets at a podium
standing on the same set of legs for twelve hours?
do you know what it’s like to make enough popcorn
to feed the swarming, blood-thirsty masses
of horny adolescent locust cows
filtering mercilessly into the concession stand?
to burn a perfect batch of kettle corn, terrified
as the sweet smoke rises towards the fire detectors
and you know if it gets to be too much
that the alarms will sound
and the box office will have to refund
every ticket sold that evening
to the growling sheep ready to pounce at guest services?
to sit alone in a giant room filled with candy
disgustingly suicidal at three in the morning
counting pieces of stale sour strips by the pound
when all you want is to go home
and die for a day or two in your warm bed?
to wear a three-piece-suit in a congested concession stand
making popcorn bites and overpriced pizzas
while your sixteen-year-old cohorts jack off behind you?
to hold the door for the smiley motherfuckers coming out
of rancid movie theaters leaving behind used condoms
and the scent of bad chainsaw-slasher-horror-movies
and pubescent screams like sadistic adolescent dry humps
in the back of minivans?
to digest a three-course-meal of super nachos
topped with synthetic guacamole
and diluted jalapenos
and insecure sour cream and cheese
that turns to stone in your lower intestines
that you eat on a ten minute grace period
between cleaning monster theaters
where children find ways of getting sour patch kids
and malted milk balls stuck on the ceiling?
to tell the new hires to go get more ice mix
or to only scrub the yellow squares of the carpet
because they’re the only ones that get dirty
or to tell them to go clean theater seventeen
because haha, there’s only sixteen theaters here?
to escape from the cinematic madness to the back room
where the drink compressors hiss
and the dishwasher gargles
and there’s a starry-eyed girl waiting there
and in the midst of gladiator battles and spaceship races,
there is a moment of nothing
where the universe puts its phones on silent
and you too can kiss like you think you know what love is?
to run the satellite food station on a tuesday night
which means you have plenty of free time
to contemplate why you need a second food staion
open a god-forsaken tuesday night?
to have your boss pull you aside to tell you
that you can’t show up to work drunk anymore
and it’s okay if you’re late
to lock up the front doors at closing
and then to unlock the arcade games
so you and your stupid coworkers can play pinball
and DDR to your little infantile heart’s content
and little known fact -
the high scores on the arcade games at the movie theater
are held by the employees of said movie theater.
to walk to the last bus in the streetlight twilight
with a black trash bag full of popcorn
that keeps you company on the lurking ride home?
to be a ghost in the projector room
to be God flashing images of everylife and eternal heartbeat
onto the anorexic white screen of pure truth?
to sit in a GMC Jimmy at four in the morning
listening to song ADD with a sweet girl
who happens to be your boss
who you like to make out with -
the movie theater isn’t exactly your five-year-plan?
to go talk to the widowed ticket-taker
who hugs you with her eyes
and tells stories the way stories are meant to be told
between two people
instead of between a gaggle of morons
and a billion dollar budget?
to be stuck in the money room
starving for food and moonlight
but you aren’t leaving
until one hundred dollars finds itself?
to go home smelling like decaying sugar
and italian sodas and superficial butter and sweat
and the dead babies living in the squeaky movie theater seats
and coke and diet coke and icees, yeah, blue raspberry icees
and all-beef hot dogs and so much drama
and it was the worst job ever and it was yes.
COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO