I wrote this poem earlier this week while I was reading Wired magazine and waiting for my Dad to come out of surgery, which is only the inspiration... the emotion in the poem comes from the idea that too much of a good thing can be too much of that thing--and that if we sit comfortably for too long, then we may sit comfortably for the rest of our lives.
Image by gematrium via FlickrWaiting for the man--
Long past his high-scoring days--To get up from his winged chair
The clock no longer ticksThe room wears a living sash--
Ghosts of ethnicity's chameleon--
Dressed over a television
That repeats the sound
Of Pac's opening act
With each quarter they meetAn endless plume wafts
From a leather-caged pyre
As teeth chatter relentlessly
At an end table of expired pellets
Just out of reachIce meets a warm demise
In a untouched glass
That waits for an intermission--Oak-aged water for the thirsty beast--
That comes only with death
No one lives through 256.
Image by ecstaticist via FlickrSoul gets high
