one lonely owl

in the middle of a bad dream i ask whoever is filming not to stop

i don't know what a nightmare is called when i am napping during the day

or if i am awake

but i'm guessing it's really all the same

i enter this hole of self-pity

which is really housing another hole

of self loathing

which reveals itself as a sea

of utter contempt and i

am now floating

the closest i came to knowing god was being caught in a rowing shell on the fox river in the middle of a wicked storm

i looked into god's eyes

and they were gray-

like my favorite woolen sweater

thrice worn and thrifted

i guess at heart

i'm a materialist

people often ask me what it's like to fly the coop

budding ornithologists are weary of tired analogies

i want to be a writer

if given the chance i would write a novel for every pretty girl that let me kiss her

and another for the all-seeing eye of her big sister

rain drops smooched my hair soft

your kisses were distinct like welts from an airsoft

i never wore a tie that didn't come from the thrift store

before i was a vegetarian i should've fished more

i wonder if the pizza in heaven tastes better than here

my spidey-sense tingles whenever eddie vedder is near

i've never done anything impressive because being remembered as a headline would be delineating

i've never really wanted to be remembered

when robert died i was in a bookstore that wasn't born yet

and all around me spun the narratives of other fallen heroes

dust! dust! dust!

dust on the tomes of the stories of yesterday;

dust on the tombs of the heroes of today

dust

dust

dust

i miss you

do you like your raps sung by a prettier gent

who fornicates copiously with a prosthetic wench?

i'll fade into oblivion when my prophecy's spent

in a megaplex guessing where my office copies were lent

now i

never was ever the best break dancer

and you'll never hear my name on your cb police scanner

but i can hoist my braveheart-esque banner to the moon

and create much havoc in a small-town

college kid's room

hip hop's grand prize is a following of nasty milfs

who understitched their lonely son's eagle scout quilts

which explains why the lad is so passive-aggressive

and hastily labeled my press kit massively unimpressive

i was farmed for my similarity to a duracell battery

and quickly abandoned at a calculator factory

i'm no wizard of waverly

but i wear second hand goods like they were made for me

i went to school to become a philosopher

but dropped out to be a sober kid cudi imposter

with a spoon that's porous

i lounge in siberia

dining on borscht with boris

my mind has the drive of an old ford taurus

unfortunately my mind has no roads: it's just a forest

rap's kurt vonnegut

blurb fontset

for you i would cross the infinite sea of midpoints

and eat french fries at your favorite cheeseburger joint

when we're old

please call me if you crack your diskjoint

i might be busy keeping these rhymes on point

catch me rapping in your favorite restaurant's senior citizen line

dropping wizened rhymes

about the fall of byzantine

i said catch me rapping in your favorite restaurant's senior citizen line

dropping wizened rhymes

about the fall of byzantine

i'm an old man eating zatarain's with cataracts

worrying about matching my afghans with my stocking caps

a trip to the restroom can last me a couple hours

i remember when folks thought mcs had divine powers

pretending we were word wizards and conjurers;

tv told us we were murderers on the lam from their officers

in many ways i'm this culture's premiere historian

i told a young man at the bus stop and he said i was borin' him

now i'm in the arts and crafts room at this old nursing home

cutting out hearts from the same cardboard i danced upon

i couldn't possibly put to words how depressed i am

every week i look forward to hearing the funkmaster's jam

i made some notes for what else i could blab about

the other night i told my bed nurse i was swagged out

she put me in my place fast

responding

why can't you wipe your own ass?

damn