Our Snoring Consumer Poem by Cretan Maineiac

It's when he's quiet
he's most likely
to strike, biting himself, a crude form of

rumination *qua* ruination. So says his
'book, ' the same
proclaiming 'mind of an 8-yr-old'

('Me forty-four, ' he rebuts, helpfully) .
Forbidden
to sleep off lazy Sundays and

gray Mondays alike, so as to
Facilitate
his nightly rest and recharge

The steady,
grinding
rhythm of

acceptable behavior, keeping
him alive
enough to wish he were

dead, drug-induced
dreams of
motocross & comfort

c/o a Chinese family, produced &
directed by
*shenkui* & relentless,

tethered masturbation, asleep
as a
log thru the

Sawmill, alerting
all who
Care @

3AM that
all
is well.