Ode to Jon

We all saw it, but we never knew it ... until now. We saw him sit in an apple's glow, cuddled in the corner of that old cabin by the creek. The foundation was made of concrete and the walls had begun looking like stories. They were covered in letters, photographs and cd's, Tibetan prayer flags, hats and legends of the fall. In the half-light of a monitor, it was hard to tell where the wall ended and he started to talk in his sleep.

"IT'S NOT FINIshedrrr, till the WHOLE THING ISrrrr ... Runn ... (Snore/snort, exhale)".

He wasn't acting, he was real. Not that he couldn't act if he wanted to, we'd all seen it before. Give him a mic and a stage and he was more capable than a pirate with a beer and a buccaneer. His mom even told us to check his bed for booty. We didn't though, because we all knew what we'd find. And who cares about high-end lemonade bottles and Theraflu packets? He said they put him to sleep, we didn't say anything. We just watched him in the blue glow of his computer screen with his iPhone hanging from his mouth like a high-tech pop-tart.

"Jon, are you a vampire?"

We all thought it, but we never asked it. He probably would have answered,

"Are you a ... fingers ... phizers?"

...

"Of course I'm a vampire."


We all knew it, but we never saw it, until now. The computer wasn't glowing, his insides were.