pop up in the strangest places,
like on my key ring
in the form of a rewards card
with lamination receding
from every corner,
opening the way
for putrid, green filth
to work towards the center;
and it might be mold,
or it might be green ear wax;
it really looks like boogers,
and kind of like rancid baby poop,
and it’s just disgusting.
and all the while,
that has been in my oblivious pocket.
snow fall this morning,
melted away by the afternoon;
fearful me-taphor.
dragging out of bed
into the living room,
watching snow flakes
slowly whipping,
slowly whirling,
blown here
blown there,
finally coming to rest,
in a white bed,
looking so warm,
looking so cozy,
leading me back to my own bed
to sleep away the day,
warm and cozy inside.
and i was enamored,
much like when i later got hammered,
and my mind was filled
with thoughts that thrilled
every part of me
as i watched the tv,
and i wanted so much to compete;
and I wanted so much to complete
ly leave behind the stocky boy I used to be
finding the athletic god ahead of me.
so i decided to go get myself a snack,
thinking that tomorrow i would hit the wrack.
Lyger! Lyger! burning bright
In the midst of a fight,
What skilled artist tragic
Could draw thy skills in magic?
In what distant land or place
Did thy perilous form take shape?
On what inspiration were thee based?
What the paper could have thee encased?
And for the purposes of meeting a girl,
What maestro of pen could thee unfurl?
And when thy form began to take shape,
What the dressing of thee in a cape?
And to be sure thee did not suck,
What the pencil? What the fuck
Were the thoughts on his mind,
While he starred off, as if blind?
When he danced with all his might
Were thee only or a friggin blight?
Did he smile his drawing to see?
Did he who drew Pedro draw thee?
Lyger! Lyger! burning bright
In the midst of a fight,
What skilled artist tragic
Could draw thy skills in magic?
they say that we’re slipping
but i’m not so sure,
at least not according
to the posted score
where we’re really quite good
and still up on top,
at least for the moment
our dominance won’t stop.
so whether these wins
really matter or not
at least we’ll feel better
about our loss of the top.
i knew that you wantedneededyearned to talk
but i had to go
and no entreaty could sway me from my course,
so you didn’t entreat,
nor did you cry,
but sitting there calmly,
in that moment i watched you die;
and what was you before
became cloaked in stone
and in statuesque grandeur
you calmly watched me walk away
because i had to go.
or perhaps the other day,
what does it matter anymore,
and you looked my way
only to then look away
shaking your head in disgust;
but what did i care
i’d made my choice,
already moving to the door;
so turning away
there was one thing to say:
what does it matter anymore.
completely full,
but not coming out,
clogged by the very substance
that gives it meaning;
and every now and then,
i hear it rumble within
as another tray is broken,
falling into the bin.
and all there is to do
is go to the source,
opening the cover,
forcefully taking my desire.
as a child
i thought
nothing was better
than a snow day:
staying home
warm inside
cold outside
free to build
free to roam
free to enjoy
being free.
and i love it still.
we once thought ourselves to be
but now its only you,
liberating me,
allowing me to return
to the sleep i once enjoyed
while you, alone with your fear,
go about your bondage,
sobbing softly in the dark,
watching reruns
of shows now long dead,
looking to the future
and hopes of what lies ahead.
it starts down low
and moves pretty slow,
tightening my guts,
making me feel nuts,
then slowly rising up
but not quite to throw up;
so i try to breath deep
and close my eyes to sleep,
then submerge myself in work
which is as helpful as a spork;
and when someone comes in,
hide it all behind a grin.
in just three hours,
we’ll be right back here,
yet again,
doing it all over,
yet again.
so we’ve got to
get in the food and drink
while we can,
and the clean sleep
while we can.
Soon this all will end
and off I’ll go,
back to real life,
back to work,
no longer able
to sit with you
to watch you
laughcryeatsleepgrow
to be there,
with you,
when you need me.
and night is day,
everything seems
just the same;
and sleep recedes;
and sleep returns;
and in the same moment
pain is found,
as is peace
and hope that someday,
hopefully soon,
we’ll be able to better commune,
and finally understand each other.
two days ago,
at just this time,
you weren’t.
and then you were,
with screams,
with kicks,
with little, furious fists
mad at the world,
making sure that you were heard.
and now you’ve somewhat mellowed,
allowing me to think:
about who you are;
and who you were;
and who you yet will be;
about what you will do to me.
raspy snores
sign of deep breathing
caused by exhaustion
and too late of nights,
punctuated every now
and again
by a whimper,
or a moan,
or a coo,
and it seems right.
until windows update
overtakes everything,
crashing this;
crashing that;
tearing everything apart
with its awesome power
and the majestic way
that it closes programs,
completely on its own,
maybe asking;
maybe not;
depends on its mood.
and all that’s left
for me to do
is acquiesce,
because there is no questioning
and there is no disagreeing
once the update has began.
it may not happen today
or may not happen soon,
perhaps not for 20 years,
until finally ready to exit,
Owen will spring forth,
fully formed,
not from the head,
but in the traditional way,
awkwardly,
gruesomely,
beautifully.
it might be slow to get going
but eventually it will
and when it does,
it will carry on,
ad infinitum,
and beyond,
for as long as we like,
never waning,
never lolling,
always good,
always too short,
until the time comes
and we have to go,
home,
away,
apart,
just when it started to get good.
the sieve and the sand 
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