When the moon rises high
Over your sleeping body
And the night fairy carries out schemes
You cannot perceive
The world as it is
But instead you see into your dreams.
In dreams you’re a giant,
A wizard, a toaster,
A breakfast of bacon and eggs
And you fight with a demon
Who looks like your neighbor
Except for his seventy legs.
You dream of a princess
Named “Costco Potatoes”
Who sings about pudding and skin
And then you awake,
The fantasy world you were in.
Lost are the memories
Of worlds unimagined
Like socks, lyrics, birthdays, and names,
But you know you are dreaming
When someone is screaming
“Your mixtape is actually flames!”
Today I made money
By performing tasks.
That’s why this poem’s late and bad
In case anybody asks.
I am not the clothes I wear.
I’m not the style of my hair.
I’m not my height or weight or style,
Neither my scowl nor my smile.
All these things that you can see
Mean nothing to that which is me.
I’m what I do, or so I’ve found;
My body’s just to get around.
Somewhere past the mountains,
O’er the river, by the glade
Is a land of fame and fortune
Where a fellow might get laid.
Somewhere by my bedside
There’s chocolate cake and beer
And a whole day to play Skyrim
So my choice is pretty clear.
Some may think it’s pretty neat,
But I just think its’s strange,
That there are people in the street
Protesting climate change,
Demanding that reality
Conform to how they view it
And thinking politicians
Have the tools with which to do it.
Meanwhile, folks RSVP’ed
To commit a federal crime
Via Facebook, storming Area 51.
(This stanza ends with a rhyme)
I think that this September
Is as dumb as a month can get,
But then I smile and remember…
It hasn’t ended yet.
“I’ve got a song for you Billy,”
The executive told Mr. Joel.
“It’s a song for the sad, lonely everyman
“And the pianist has a prominent role.”
“Sounds pretty fly,” Mr. Joel said,
“And I have but one simple request:
“I think we’ll have one short piano bit
“And let harmonica guy do the rest.”
I said “People love dying of cancer
“And stinky electrical stuff.
“Why don’t we combine them?”
Then the corporations called my bluff.