quar

he was a mellow fellow.

a new TV show every night,

futon stuffed and comfortable,

the world specifically designed.

the same four albums and

flourescent basement lighting,

occasional pornography

bliss is in consistency.

a ticking alarm clock marks the time,

the only significant change,

as hours pass him by and by

dazed days fading, hazy, all the same.

safe at home on an island inside

a stone sitting stoned—still—not rolling, gathers moss,

and after a certain time has passed

whatever name was there was lost.

he was a mellow fellow

so full of compromises

and an unwavering love for his comfort,

which removed his existence from history.