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