We are genius magicians
Who supply the magic buttons
That fulfill your every need.
We feed on your greed
And we need to succeed.
Your want is our fount.
Your wont can be taught
And your mind can be bought.

We ARE the genius magicians
Who influence your decisions.
We make our incisions
In the fissures of your brain.
We’ll remove your pain
And tell you you are sane.

We are the masters without Masters
Who can’t be bothered to shower
Our undivided attention upon
Any real, deserving problem.

We keep you shallow
And allow you to follow
Any hollow or vapid fellow.

We are the wizards of pause,
Rewind,
Fast-forward,
Skip,
Ad nauseum.
Our videos are the funniest;
Our buttons the shiniest.
We’ll keep you connected;
Your messages intercepted;
Your time well spent.

We are genius magicians 
Who offer nothing
More than a simple, everyday distraction.

I reveal my secret to her:
I am happiest the moment before sleep,
The point furthest from awake.
Seven am I am a bundle of pain.
I want nothing more
Than an eternity between sheets
To spend weeks and weeks and weeks
Snuggled against her cheek.
I crawl from bed to floor.
I stumble through door.
I bus from here to there.
I work hour upon hour.
I pile smile upon smile.
I work harder and longer and slower.
I don’t care.
I crave for just one more
Lovely night with her.

I write love notes in Objective-C to myself and unknown future lovers.
My life and time are spent perfecting a tiny package, an app.
Unexpected crashes lead to sleepless nights.
Lengthy arguments over navigation inspire brief thoughts of career change.
Months pass and through the chaos emerges a tiny, imperfect gem.
It doesn’t do all that we want, but it does enough.
I pin my hopes on:
     Its simple beauty,
     Its logical layout,
     And its creator’s obsessive attention to detail
With a final adieu my fingers tenderly stroke keys that send it packing
Towards final judgement by our feudal lords, the fickle gatekeepers known as Apple.
A single thumb holds the fate of my efforts:
     Pointed down, my baby is off to the guillotine; never to see the light of day.
     Pointed up, she will run free through a world designed just for her.
Dear Apple, Your Highness, Your Lordship, please don’t kill my baby.
I will abandon lifelong agnosticism and raise golden idols in your image.
I will prove my devotion through ritualistic purchases of your products.
I will preach your greatness and convert the masses.
I will do whatever it takes, just please don’t kill my baby.

I am on the bus.
I am sitting next to a man who smells like piss.
I am reading Man’s Search for Meaning
And I am comparing my life to that of a Jew during World War II.

I am thinking it’s all relative and
I am off the bus.
I am waiting at a red light as others cross;
I am thinking what’s the rush?

I am shooting smiles with reckless abandon
At passing coworkers
On my beeline to safe desk.

I am asking myself What does it all mean?
I am grasping at faint memories of this morning’s read.
I am medicating myself with caffeine.
I am staring at my computer screen.

I used to play a game
Called
‘Find my keys’
On Saturday mornings.
Yawns and more
Escaped my mouth
As I lay in torture
On my couch.
I’d find my way
From hour to hour
Until outside I’d
Check
My car was still there.
I used to play this game
On Saturday mornings
Monday mornings
Tuesday and Wednesday.
I played this game
Until it wasn’t
Fun anymore. 

When I was alone
Music gave me company;
Music gave love to me.

Bukowski
Taught me how to drink
Taught me how to think.

Merritt broke his heart
So I didn’t have to;
Despite my want to.

Murdoch fell in love
And was loved by
Everyone.

Heinlein made the stars mine.
He conquered time
With divine truth.

Woody’s fantasies
Were unbelievable
Which made them lovable. 

Maybe we will die in an earthquake.
Maybe an earthquake will come
And shake our ceiling beams
Until the walls collapse
And crush our dreams.

Maybe we’ll live to be one hundred
Bodies resembling the undead
Faces etched in wood
The way they should be.

Maybe we will be forgotten
In memories rotten
By the decay of time
But you’ll always
Be mine.

I am getting better
At crafting reality
To my imagination.

My hands,
My hands shape
All that I touch.

My thoughts,
My thoughts are born to escape
Through joyous creation.

I can change the world
By arranging words
On a piece of paper.

I will change the world
By creating
Love and laughter.

I am.

I am changing.
I am changing the world
And I am getting better.

I want to be
The one we study
In future history.

I need to find
Beautiful words
To make the world
Love me.

Nothing.
Nothing makes me happier.
Nothing makes me happier, then.
Nothing makes me happier than
Five bottles of beer.

Failing college.
Failing work.
Stocking shelves.
Taking orders.
Driving drunk.
Making mistakes.
Many, many mistakes.
Unclear thoughts.
Waking up
In strange places.
Strange faces.
Doesn’t matter.

Still alive.
Still able to drink.
Still able to think.
Working
For reasons
I can’t comprehend.
Except,
The desire for
Five bottles of beer.