The Deception of Sensory Data

I thought he was asleep.
Heavy, measured breathing. Involuntary twitching of tiny arm muscles. His fifteen pound body given        over completely to somniatic bliss and my right side is sweating under his PJs
Michael O'Brien's book has enraptured me. Sensory data is met with uninterested cerebral reception.
Without impetus, I turn my seeing from the pages to the crook of my arm: two dark, pure eyes meet        mine.
He has been watching me.
What does he see? His face is expressionless and not blank; his eyes pierce and do not invade.
Is he looking for something? Trying to find a real father behind all the facades I've erected?
Our brows are 6, 8 inches apart.
Neither mortal coil moves.
Knowing no human awkwardness, his gaze is fearless. He fabricates no distraction to disengage and           his innocence in challenging.
I cannot recall the last time I stared into someone's eyes for 180 seconds.
Pupils are too near the surface; Rods and cones measure only one dimension.
Father and son speak with eyes and hear with souls.
His curiosity quenched, or his quest fulfilled, pudgey eyelids collapse under their own weight.
Three, two, one.

A Houyhnhnm

Nothing more than a simple yes or no question proposed;
     A solitary, out-of-place dish that he wasn't to touch.
The futile attempts of a still, small voice to reign in growing fingers, wandering,
     Were no match for the temptation of curiosity.
He sets his jaw, steels his eyebrows and contracts the muscles in his shoulder blades
    That have yet to bear the weight of manhood or reason.
The newly grown exoskeleton is the first shell under which
    The commencing shots of a life-long war are, and will be, muffled.
Darkened eyes, though, lay bare the false illumination
    Of speaking that which is not so.
A strange, new power, Is it physical?, courses through his body
    Which each successive "no",
    But he cannot bear the sting of fledgling conscience and, quickly,
    Can only force himself to wiggle his head.
Fifty-three and one half months have not yet equipped him
    With the tactics of deceit of others, or himself.
One knee on the floor, so he can search my own eyes,
   How do I tell him his disguise has failed?
Will he repent, or refine?
As the boyish body that will very soon be manish relaxes,
     The internal turmoil surfaces through a weak, quivering lower lip.
Yes, he says.

An Icon of Culture

The image of a red squirrel caught in the act
     of what appears to be exhortative preaching.
He is proclaiming the good news of the return of
     the savior of our society,
     the great unifier,
     consolation of the working man,
     hope of millions.
He pleads for our active participation
     in his worship: "Can I get an Amen?"
          reads the meme.
Many will flock to the towering, glistening
     priceless basilicas,
     reaching deep into their pockets
          to pay the tithe.
The drama of the Sunday liturgy,
     played out by 22 concelebrants,
     depicts the struggle between good and evil;
          which is which depends on the color of the vestments.
From the entrance hymn,
     an ode to a banner, yet waving,
          to golden flags of the penitential rites,
          to crowns won and lost on Hail Marys,
     the people interrupt their partaking
          of the communion of Brat and Beer
     to sing responsorial psalms
          of cheers, groans and boos.
The faithful return home,
     filled with the highs and lows
          of emotional catharsis.
     They meditate all week on lessons learned,
     and anticipate with fervor the next occasion
          to receive the sacrament.
Heed the voice of the furry prophet:
     Football season is at hand!