Hey God, scoot over a bit. I'm feeling kinda tired. Would you fluff that cloud for me?  Ah, thanks dude, much better. My head's been feeling heavy. The closer I get to the end of the road, well...makes me wonder why bother with the rest of the show. The endings are all the same.

To be honest, it hasn't been quite all it was hyped.  We start running low on that joy thing and all of a sudden it just seems so ...pointless.  I find myself wondering if my dog is going to outlive me. ****'s that about?  I've had a dozen or so dogs and this is the first I've ever worried about whether one would be sad if I checked out tomorrow. Another sad lonely old dog ain't going to be the end if the world.

Even poetry's not doing much for me. Face it, mine's fallen flat, and with the exception of a handful of golden pens on HP, it's kind of gone to hell. Oh, I don't blame eliot. That's what happens when us old ***** play around with technology that the youngins know more about. Algorithm doesn't know **** about poetry, and all I know about hash is how to smoke it. Think I'll just stay up here and rest a spell. This fluffy cloud is feeling mighty fine.

r ~ 5/23/14

I place all of my
Sympathies
Before
You.

I've had relationships with many others after you
And in each one it's you I see all the way through.
I sometimes see your eyes or your smile
And that's what makes it all worthwhile.

But the boy I met the other day
He makes your image fade to gray.
Because when I look into his blue eyes
They aren't like yours in disguise.

It is 4:30 in the afternoon
And I tell you
This is my favorite time of day.
You ask why
So I point to the gold
Streaming in the window,
Bouncing off the dust.
And you kiss me.
Maybe 4:31 in the afternoon
Is my favorite time of day.

O might those sighs and tears return again
Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent,
That I might in this holy discontent
Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourned in vain;
In mine Idolatry what showers of rain
Mine eyes did waste! what griefs my heart did rent!
That sufferance was my sin; now I repent;
‘Cause I did suffer I must suffer pain.
Th’ hydropic drunkard, and night-scouting thief,
The itchy lecher, and self-tickling proud
Have the remembrance of past joys for relief
Of comming ills. To (poor) me is allowed
No ease; for long, yet vehement grief hath been
Th’ effect and cause, the punishment and sin.

I read him one of my poems
He complemented my mechanics
And although part of me laughed
Wondering how he heard me breathe the commas
Heard my spelling bee winner's letter placement
Still
The notion stuck
Steadfast
Push-pinned in my memory
In the neglected space where kind gestures live
I told him how I appreciated it
I should've told him
Boy no no
You don't understand
My mechanics need fixing
No not my grammar boy
I should've told him to volunteer
Sweet boy
I know hands are easier to work with than words
Touch me with both
Shhhh sweet boy
Fix me with your good nature
Let it wash over me
Wash away my grime
You needn't a good speaking voice
But a good intention
Warming arms
To thaw me
Couldn't hurt
But sweet boy
Too bad
We all grow sick of licorice
And I broke you
Like the mantelpiece momma told me not to play around
I broke you
For a less sweet boy
With a politician tongue
And words soaked in muddy motives
I broke you
Hardened you
Into a less sweet boy
With a polititia- err
Salesman tongue
And words soaked in muddy motives
I left you
Gone with the wind
You were the Rett
In the search for my Ashley
But he broke me
Like the soldiers countenance heading to combat
He left me
Wondering
Where all the sweet boys could have gone