Giving Thanks to Mediocrity

Thanks for the uncanny college tuition fees that make me want to off myself with a sledge hammer before I even reach teacher’s college.
Thanks for the bigotry towards Islam and bringing the world together as equals.
Thanks for Bill O’ Rielly and Glenn Beck.
Thanks for the billion dollars spent for a photo op at the G20 summit.
Thanks for all the homeless, starving people that we pass nonchalantly without care.
Thanks to the absurd media coverage that watch miners playing Play Station underground while innocent people in Pakistan live on their rooftops surrounded by deadly flood water.
For the merriness of poverty all around us!
For the old ladies with ample asses who wear Sunday hats and protest at soldier’s funerals.
Thanks for suicidal teens in such an accepting society.
Thanks for large trucks and hummers that require more gas than a wealthy ego.
Thanks for a nation of mediocrity.
Yes, thank you for making me feel welcomed as a middle class citizen.
Smile your fake smiles of solitude.
And most of all, thanks for the treachery amongst a sea of serenity.

Eye Spy.

Through every crowd of human beings
runs a river of deep blues,
sea foam greens,
and caramel browns.
The eye is outlined by bristles
of a paint brush, commonly used
for butterfly kisses that tickle the skin.
Inside these football shaped slits
lies a filmy, white bulb
complimented with crimson veins
creeping across a coat of lacquer.
The iris radiates hues of gold and auburn
while acting as a garland
around an infinite black abyss.
Salty pools of water sink
into the duct of the eye,
allowing streams of mascara
to trace a map down a damp cheek.
The blossoming red branches
become more vibrant and
the russet cornea seems to be floating
in a sea of whisked cream.
Blinking away the puddles,
they glisten like that of fireflies
dancing in the darkness.
The one window in which you see through
is of the utmost unnoticed.

Unrestrained Whiskers

His beard is the untamed forest,
a trimmed shrub on a Sunday morning,
a paintbrush plucked of its limp bristles,
chaotic lashes growing thick and spontaneous,
like moss composing on the chin of a boulder.
There’s remnant stubble on the barber’s floor,
smelling of whiskey and menthol cigarettes.
Stale cuisine remains crusted to the mane
until a fresh waterfall pays its due.
Permanent or temporary,
I find it always returns.

And yet, despite its prickly nature,
there is serenity.
It is a sanctuary where I can hide,
undisturbed and slumbering
amongst a jungle of braided grape vines.
I wash my face in the river
of his warm wool thatch,
and float peacefully
along the tress of tranquility.