Lagumbay.com Reflections on Love, Rage, and Fear

I usually keep track of inventory,
stocking up on the essentials
such as sugar and caffeine
and much needed pantry items
like rest, patience, and nice.

Well, an abrasive gentleman before me
missed a num lock cue and concluded
that the keyboard was busted.
Deep within my soul, I searched –
Do you have any Nice?

Fresh out, my friend.
You used it all two hours ago
and you forgot to get some more.
Low on rest and patience, too –
I suggest you find a bunker.

Impossible, I thought,
but memory betrayed me,
sneaking bitterness in my grocery bag
when I had procured some Nice.
That vengeful bastard.

Can you make some Nice instead?
Brilliant, Fukui San
but the secret ingredient is trout –
I suggest you slap him with it.
Memory has been reading IRC logs again.

Hell-o! I said your keyboard is BUSTED.
Are you deaf or just retarded?
Calm blue ocean shark infested
hiding sunken ships and bodies –
scumbag pirates. Calm, peaceful ocean.

Hey! Your keyboard is busted!
And your machines are damn slow
I am wasting my time here
and you are no help –
Sticking to his talking points.

Peaceful meadow, quiet breeze
with soft sunlight on my face
and pollen triggering allergies
with sneezing and discomfort.
Face it, kiddo — out of Nice.

Sir, I suggest knowing number lock
lest you find me busting that keyboard
by typing qwerty on the back
of your thick skull. I asked my soul
and he said I was out of Nice.

Definition of indignant stupidity.
Yes, the machines are slow
Yes, you are one ugly moron
and it seems neither of us
can remedy either situation.

Instead I walked over, pressed a key
enabling numlock and quietly stepped away,
scraping on the pantry shelf for
a grain or two — the only thing to do
when your soul runs out of Nice.

No, this was my space –
a place for the unpopular, uncool, outcasts.
This was a sacred place of solitude,
a space of information
interesting to myself and a few others.

We were shunned as geeks, called nerds,
picked on for playing video games,
mocked for spending our free time
in front of a computer.
You were so proud that you had lives.

Now look at you with your Halo and Madden
All cool and popular with your iPods
and that teeny tiny knowledge you proudly
call computer literacy.
No, this was my space.

Instead of being with all of you,
I chose this space. I belonged.
I expressed myself to peers who understood
because they too wanted nothing to do with you
and none of you were here.

Now here you are, shallow as ever,
invading my space with your social life,
crying about how nobody understands you
while still picking on the geeks and nerds.
You can go to hell.

Here you are with your OMGs and LOLs,
all-caps and your AOL. You talk hardware
’cause you’re a gamer, which is suddenly acceptable.
You double click on something and call it hacking.
You bastardize my space and call it your own.

Yes, I am bitter and I can’t expect you to understand –
you’re much too dense for something like this
but if you’re so damn cool, so damn popular
then why do you still feel so empty?
What are you doing in my space?

I am dust and I can’t help but feel a little dusty
Pounded down on the ground after a Chuck Norris Roundhouse
Kick to the face and there you were again with the watching
and the hands-off mentality.  Here I was getting my spine
ripped off like some Mortal Kombat Fatality and I’m
supposed to kneel down and tell you “thanks for having me?”
I think we’ve got this backwards and to paraphrase Trent –
Somebody owes someone a great big apology and I’m not so sure
If I’m the one who should say sorry.  Sure, I bought into the lie –
How you’re more awesome than Superman…and Superman can fly!
They threw words around like omnipotent and omnipresent
So you must have watched them fight against The Star and Crescent,
Watched people suffer and die throughout the centuries, so for someone
with all that power, I’m not impressed and I can’t understand
why you can’t lend a bigger hand.  “To whom much has been given,
much will be required” wrote Luke, divinely inspired — but you’ve
got everything, Jack, and nobody holds you accountable
even though your inaction is quite palpable.
Today, you remind people that they are dust –
some sort of reality check to keep your sheep in check.
To that I say “You are pixie dust”
and I’ve got news for you, Tinker Bell –
I’m not Peter Pan.