Brothers and sisters,
I sit warding cynical language to the illumination of my desktop.
Bartering darkness with small doses of snickering blank stares.
My pretention is strength.
Mediocre-core, I dub my passages.
Incomparable senseless steads I ride in stanzas
Through time, He was once a child warrior.
So masculine before now.
I wouldn’t call balance a chance but a imperfect standard.
All ball, no beam.
Steps are often not taking for balance.
I burden myself with Erie
Lake of which my family took refuge in supply
Something I wouldn’t understand
Traumatized by cold weather let alone starving.
Burnt tires in my nostrils in protest to movement
I fund my own campaign of self deprecation
Laughing at my own actions,
unkindly ripping myself apart.
The smiles I paint on paper faces are bleeding ink
Smearing on my hands, red dripping from gums.
I am laughing.
That’s how he would of wanted me.
To see me smile.
So cynical and backwashed blood in my water.
He argued who should laugh at his jokes.
At his mishaps.
At his blunders.
At his failures.
He said it was “for him”.
"That’s what it is", belly juggled in hiccups of air.
“I am the man who laughs at himself.
If I can make myself laugh I am happy.
Not a jester for common cynics.
I AM Scaramouche in MY play.
The king is me.
The queen is too.
The crowd is amateurs looking for my intoxication.
I will give them tastes of beer but I drink from the tap.”
Thus bent over and *** crack smiles flatulence, hyena and exit.
Regular here, a Griffin in abuse to my sides.
My uncle.
I woke in shock vibrations from my screen.
Forensic analysis deduced irregularities as the time provided evidence.
This was not a humorous hour.
I spun in my current room
Dreading sheets over the sun.
Pulling lashes out of my eyes.
I lost the battle to the hour and checked the joke.
My sister said it wasn't funny.
He wasn’t laughing when he left us.
He did get the last laugh and on no ones terms.
I wonder if that was something he can remember
Chuckling excessively in waves of inhales.
No one laughed at his side rigorous.
Not a single smile in the room.
As 1200 miles of anxiety took me to his grave.
Waking in California sunshine and resting in Buffalo wind.
I wasn’t a funny person compared to my well rested uncle.
He unveiled a Irish swagger in a ballroom of stuffed necks.
My uncle broke the rules for Carpe Diem, pushing comfort aside.
One by one, family members dismissed my clown.
They were ashamed of themselves, they can't laugh.
They don’t know how to laugh.
Such seizures of breathe at his own voice.
You were in the ensemble yourself, seizures and grasping.
Your stiff neck with red anxiety,
feeling the palms and stares of relatives beating your face.
"**** 'em!"
As I lose sight of my surroundings
I imagined him for the last time explaining the world to me;
"Look at all of this limited moments
No TIME!
No REASON!
**** trying to be stiffed neck down to your *** crack!
You don't have an *** to begin with!"
My Uncle, the Meta-modernists first.
I doubt he even would care to know what that even means.
And I loved him for that raw innocence.
Sheila LaBeouf could of learned what infamy really was;
One 12 pack,
A BBQ
Horse **** Country for suburbs.
And my uncles shadow.
With that he was never alone in blue skies or gray
Juggling blubbering soul, translating to joy.
I didn't hear sobs, just sobering up.
I feel so clueless now since I turn back on my chair,
Documenting my Uncles success in influence.
I picture shakes coming from his rest, hallow rest.
Uncertain to if it is the snores or alertness of his nephew, taking refuge in his teachings.
