Time To Write

Time to write,
after a shower and a bite.

But then again,
I should first clean my den.

Ok, that’s done.
I have to sit down, write a ton.

But wait,
I got time to masturbate.

Sorry for the TMI,
I really shouldn’t – I gotta write my “Life of Pi”.

Is that movie on Youtube?
I better be sure, I best not assume.

Enough dicking around.
Time to sit down.

I have my tea, I have the motivation.
I have to check my 6 New Notifications.

Is there no one who can see my plight?
When will I ever find time to write?

River Rock

Tell me, river rock, what do you know?
Wisdom erode, timeless flow.

Cradled smooth.
Ancient, nomadic,
unmoved.

The affection of God’s eye embraces you.
Spectacular shades of love.
The glistening, rapid streams of your heaven above
reflect shades of reds, violets, oranges, and blues.

The fish swallow and spit you out as bone.
The children laugh and skip you over ripple and rave.
You sink to the bottom.
You sink with your legion, an army in a lave,
but yet you are completely alone.

Cradled smooth.
Ancient, nomadic,
unmoved.

The Birthday Poem

The skeleton dances ’round the sun again.
It dances with the sword, the mat, and the pen.

“Happy Birthday” creeps me the fuck out.
Standing loved ones surround me,
my heart resounds with anxiety.
Delusions of immortality fade into doubt.
I look around, it’s too uncomfortable to stare at the smiling people.
They sing off-harmony, they sing off-key.
They sing from the heart, they sing with glee.

“What an archaic tradition,” I mutter to myself.
A great, white ball of fire is before me,
ready to be extinguished,
ready to reveal a singular prophecy.

The loved laugh.
My love is by my side.
“What an archaic tradition,” I mutter. “But I guess it’s not that bad.”
Annual lifetimes have brought change, sorrow, toil, and laughter.
Twenty-seven trips- some were triumphs and some were disasters.
I laugh, I think, and I shed a tear.
“What an archaic tradition,” I mutter.

“But I do hope to do it all again next year.”

The Time

My, oh, my
look at the time.
How did the once small and curious
become so tired and furious?
Crushed by the weight of the world but forced to grow up,
told to be an individual, to make a wolf of a pup.
Told to follow their own path, told to never stray from the herd,
Told to follow unwritten rules- no matter how asinine, no matter how absurd.

Question nothing and work hard,
that is guaranteed to get you far.
Climb the ladder, don’t chew the fat.
Don’t bitch, don’t complain, don’t spit or spat.
Don’t raise a scene, don’t choose for yourself- no one would like that.
Keep your head down, be a good boy.
Follow the rules, do not dwell on the beliefs you employ.
Thoughts leads to challenge, challenge leads to change.
A spark and a question, and the neighbours will talk of you as strange.

Murmurs and whispers,
whispers and hushes,
Hushes and hums.

My, oh, my
look at the time.
The tired and the furious,
is now grey and delirious.
A hard worker, a busy bee.
Two admirable qualities
misplaced.
Pushing, pulling, bending and turning
is how he spent his days.
Head down, never nothin’ he needed to ask, never needed a say.
Knew the path he had to follow, knew not to ruffle feathers.
He fell in line for acceptance, to make the days bearable to weather.
His prize for all of that, in the end
was the admiration of the dead.