Sometimes I can’t even explain
the manic voices that puts
a charge in my chest
while visions are projected
on a screen in my brain
The “I Love New York” ashtray
adds smog to my apartment
and I am the last guy on earth
to figure out I-tunes
I often feel the presence
of the higher power
while the fur ball finds sun
Mild winter, but chills freeze my joints
as the heater blares feedback like holding
a distorted chord on the guitar
I am in the prayer position in front of my laptop
listening to prophets of a false God
These words like a sales pitch from a representative
working for another cable company
will go unnoticed
my past is the muse
that erupts in laughter
from friends close
only by the social network

Jason Jepson

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