A Poem I Can't Write

Eyes closed
like the scribbled notebook
resting on my chest
pressing me deeper into leather armrests
under the growing weight
of the half formed poem inside.
Inside the notebook or my mind?
Both, hopefully.
Neither, maybe.

Half drowned and soggy,
soaking in stale lines,
sinking lower with the light outside,
downing, bowing to the
dusk rising higher
while the sky ignites in crimson fire,
blushing with secrets in a choir or rhymes,
hushing, hiding inspired lines
tumbling, jumbled inside my mind
like thoughts without static cling
about life-cycles and streams,
grammar and beauty
sparking briefly
before dying in the embers of the wood burning stove
warming my toes
and suddenly sprouting a shrill
escape of vapor
whistling through a fuming buoy,
a bare old kettle heralding
me to tea
and the poetry
I've been blinded from,
fighting to write the right lines
while I'm inside
a better poem,
the real poem.

How to put emotion on paper...

Stop-
drop your stained eyes,
ears strained, stayed
to a faint whisper
hissing softer, shifting swifter.
Sift it smaller,
smaller,
stop.

Hold your breath and
dive down
digging,
ripping,
tearing.
Stop.
Pull it out carefully.

Cradle it in your hand.
Let the wind batter it's sides.
Watch as the stories topple to sentences,
crumble to words,
flake in your fingers
lingering only as an awkward thought
rocking back and forth
alone,
cold and folded.

Hold it close
mold it between your sweaty palms
roll it's edges dull,
wedge it in your closed fist
and wait
till it's full weight is felt
melting through your fingers,
dripping through it's burning cage,
dropping, pouring on the page,
stopping only
when the last of the mashed lead letters
etch the end of a wrecked echo
banging inside the six sides
of your Dixon Ticonderoga.

Matron of Suburbia

She walks through the valley of the shadows of lives,
she fears no evil through American eyes,
for thou art with her, upper middle-class wives.

Mediocrity is the lock and key
into her stock and taste-free
suburban asylum.

Live above your means but below your dreams.
Success is the shade of greener grass,
failure is the neighbor’s bigger boat and higher class.

The pressure is sure to press her
into the shapeless mold of her Mary Kay club,
leaving the left-over scraps of “the woman he married”
to be shaped by his new expectations
based on desperate housewives,
occasionally overflowing into
verbal abuse, bulimia,
and fresh Gerber daisies in the front planter.

Her children fill the role of
the whipped dog put down because of heightened allergies.
They tiptoe over starched carpets,
not touching the antique furniture
on the way to their antimicrobial rooms,
complaining of today’s high pollen count
and polluting their minds with Playstation III
as their muscle tone begins the long atrophy
towards festering bed sores.

Hold your head high when you step outside.
Scoff the weak, scorn the wealthy.
Adorn the drab and worn fads and forms
from former issues of celebrity magazines.
Disguise your guise, hide your lies
(naivety is your creativity).

Despise the wise.
Embrace folly for a taste of imitation fortune,
like a prime-cut filet
marinated in Natty Light
and served in a fancy bowl of A-1.

The Impressionist

“Hello, yes,
I can't believe I'm actually meeting you,
I'm such a big fan.
Hahaha,
isn't that wonderful!
Hmm, well, you don't say.
Wow, uh-huh, how interesting,
you are very important,
very beautiful.

No, no, keep talking,
I just need you to stretch a blank canvas
over my face.
That's it, keep stretching till it's tight
around my head
and I can't breath anymore.
Wow, you're very good, you must do this often.

No, keep talking, just another minute
till I suffocate.
There we are, that old face is dead,
it gets less painful each time.

Now you have a blank palette
to paint me exactly the way
others have painted you
for everyone to see.
No, I don't care,
I'll be whoever you want me to be.

My, you have such a big, important brush
and bold strokes.
Your colors are so bright and vibrant,
easy for others to smear and fade into.
Wow, that is so beautiful, so unique,
just like every other canvas in the mob
following your every step.”

Not Another New Poem

I tried to come up with a new poem today

about roads travelled and bricks being laid down in your path

or something like that

but the topic has already been abused

by people much duller than me

and now my wife just got home from work.

Value Menu

I gave this guy a dollar

and asked him to play a little

Ornette Coleman or Sonny Rollins.

He said he was the next

John Coltrane

before he started playing some Charlie Parker.

The summer heat swelled his cheeks

and bellowed through his brass sax,

while the passion and fury of angry jazz

and a life of cheap purgery

of dollar renditions

of tired supermarket compositions

bulged in his ballooning eyes,

making Charlie Parker turn in his grave

and me tuck tail and run

before turning back and yelling

"That's a Junior Bacon Cheeseburger man!"

Summer Haiku

Summer springs youth bloom

beneath faceless mass, unless

all they know is "no".

Journaling

Burt was too bored to sleep
in his red plastic chair.
No one ever seemed to notice him,
not even enough to avoid sitting next to him.
He sagged his chin to his chest
breathing through his mouth,
watching his jello legs
wobble on the subway floor.

"Maybe it will rain today,
I haven't journaled for 12 days."

12 days ago someone set their suitcase down on his toe
but he didn't say anything.
The pain was euphoric while it lasted.

Today would not compare with that day.

He got off at the next stop
and climbed the stairs to his apartment.
No mail, no messages, no leaky faucets,
no rain.

No beer.
Just 3 inches of 3-month expired milk.
He poured it into a little paper cup,
spilling it out into his hands,
rubbing it through his fingers.
It looked like gold cottage cheese.
It smelled like burnt mucus.
It tasted like soggy hot dogs and sour cream
sliding down his throat.

He held his breath and waited until
violent fire
tore through his nostrils
and ran down his belly.

Now where was that journal?

Walk the Line

Solar chlorophyll soaks foliage,
circling new cycles.
Spring rain paints a tainted pallet,
permeating a languid landscape of
monochrome complexion;
toiling, boiling, bubbling
into
sepia hues
seeping through
peering youth retinas,
exploding synapses of optic sensation
bleeding badly, splattering violently
over a vibrant canvas like Van Gogh.
Bold brush strokes
rush a blush of euphoria
coursing forcefully through elevated knees and
swaying flailing limbs
striding on spongy steps,
marching a merry line like
toy soldiers tramping their own fresh path
over a well-trodden path
surrounded on all sides
with wild
unbridled
wonder.

The Jester

Summoned by the court
he arrived head-high and confident
high-legging, zigzagging, arms flailing,
flaunting his shiniest
dilly-waggles and jimmy-jangles.

Do your little dance
jester.

He gyrates like a dyslexic spider
with a belly full of mirth and mead.

Make us merry mister marionette.
Entertain us you bumbling buffoon.

We are your judge and jury.
We are your fans and media
sitting on our thrones of armchair judgement,
passing down our slapstick verdict:
your sins are forgiven.

Just don't raise our taxes.

Mary Todd Lincoln

Her life
started in anonymity,
she wanted to be noticed;
advanced with tenacity,
she wanted to stand out;
grew into celebrity,
she wanted to be loved;
festered with egocentricity,
she wanted to be worshipped;
clawed into aristocracy,
she wanted to be better than;
decayed with vainglory,
she wanted to be remembered;
and crumbled in calamity,
inevitably.

Now she just wants anonymity.

Everybody knows her
but her.

She wanders around
in her own thoughts
walking awkwardly
in her own shoes.

The weight of glory
can be like a great story
dragged out into eight boring
chapters, when it
could have been two and
should have been one
short poem.

High Blood Pressure

We had just gotten a new Kitchenaide
for Christmas.
You know, one of those sleek Jetson's
looking things
that's aerodynamic from every angle
for whenever you may need that.

It's a muted yellow color
that stands out from every other color in our kitchen.
It's great to look at,
which they all are,
but we wanted to move up into the elite
part of society who actually used it.

We spent about 3 hours making dinner
one Sunday evening.
We made our own pasta, tomato sauce, and bread
while drinking wine and listening to jazz.

So after 3 hours of cooking, we sat down to eat
for about 4 minutes.
It was delicious, I think,
I couldn't really tell.
I don't think I really even took a breath between bites
I devoured it so fast.

Then I was sad.

Ever since then I have been enjoying my food more,
savoring it,
and not only have I developed a new
taste for tastes,
but I have adopted my savouring and enjoying strategy
to life in general.

Instead of just living in the moment,
I try to taste the moment.

Now maybe I can avoid high blood pressure
later in life.

Shame

I had been driving for 55 hours,
alone
and mostly in silence,
in search of answers,
but really in search of
the one true
question
that lay at the bottom of my soul.

Only when I discovered that question
could I truly listen for an answer.

I was answered that day
in the storm,
but I know now that I have also been answered
my whole life -
in a musical note,
a strange color,
a lightning bolt,
a mountain stream,
a lock of hair swinging from my wife's ear,
only I didn't know what question
was being answered.

Now I have a recurring dream
that I am in a great storm,
only I'm cowering, hiding,
running from the power striking all around me.

I'm terrified of the day
when I will finally summon the courage
and step out into the open field,
arms raised,
to embrace that wild,
unbridled power,
striking me to the core.

I'm terrified,
not that the light will reveal my inadequacies,
but that it will confirm the answers
I have been hearing my whole life.

I am ashamed of my glory.

John Reese Bessit

1787-1809


Raised in solitude
near Glynwedd, Wales
in a rotted cabin miles from anyone
in the deepest hollow of a dark wood
in fear and trembling

by an only father who failed to end the boy's life
by the age of four
by neglect and drowning;
not by a lack of effort,
but by drunkenness and cowardice
and his own early death.

John Reese Bessit didn't survive,
he LIVED.

The boy didn't know
jealousy or lust,
anger or pride.
He had new life.
He knew God,
new leaves and rainfall,
and always a new sunrise.

He listened to the birds.
I mean, he LISTENED to them.
He learned to whistle
to the exact pitch, each song
to each bird in the forest
to tell his thoughts, and in turn
to be trusted with their
well-traveled tales.

In the cover of night
he would slink down to the murky pond
to wade in the water
and wedge himself
beneath the muddy banks
to wiggle his body in the slime
and stare up at the moon.

John Reese Bessit
emerged from his wood
at the edge of town
at the age of 22
at dusk.

A Conversation I Hope I Never Have (ending with sit-ups)

"Taken out of context
this may sound
presumptuous,
but Jacob Richard Edwards,
I don't think you would make
a good living
pitching
lawn darts."

"Man,
I don't even know how to put that back
into context.
I've never touched a lawn dart,
and I'm not sure anyone could even make a living
pitching them."

"Am I really that presumptuous?"

"Look man,
I have no idea who you are,
how you know my middle name,
or why you're
standing on my toes."

"I have some news about your dog."

"I've never owned a dog."

"You might want to sit down for this..."

Biological Warfare

Conversation,
wielded by the wordless
succubus,
fattening on suckled
flattery,
is a well-aimed weapon
waged on the aged
and unaware
growing like a fresh mold culture
on attentive ears
in a warm petri dish.

Bravery
is
brevity.

Lucky Charms

Before there were gated communities,
grandmothers used to leave hot apple pies sitting on sills.

Before there was morning rush hour,
men used to take long showers.

Before there was a glass ceiling,
women used to leave conditioner in for the recommended 2 minutes.

Before there were telephones,
neighbors used to truthfully answer "How are you?"

Before there was day care,
children used to savor their food.

Before there were investment portfolios,
girls used to think their fathers were strong.

Before there was sun screen,
boys used to ride their bikes without knee pads.

Before there were Brita filters,
you were expected to slurp the rest of your lucky-charm-stained milk.

Before there were 7-step self-help books,
people used to be happy.

The Beard

Having a beard for the past month
has changed my life.
I think every man
at some point in their 20's
should grow a beard
to be fully initiated into manhood.

Manhood doesn't come easy.
Here is a list of official steps
towards becoming a real man....

1. Learn to drive stick
2. Catch a fish with a fly rod
3. Pack your own pipe to burn all the way through by only lighting it once
4. Appreciate jazz
5. Be able to taste the difference of single-malt scotch
6. Beat your father in chess
7. Build your own piece of furniture
8. Change your own oil
9. Buy your wife lingerie
10. Spend a night alone in the woods

and number 11.......
Grow a beard,
a real, full beard,
and then be described by someone who doesn't know you as
"the guy with the beard".

Number 11 was the last on my list
because there have been little patches
past the corners of my mouth
that have been stubbornly bare
for the past 26 years.
But now,
finally now,
I am a fully bearded man.

And oh is it glorious!
Old men don unearned respect
and children default to subservient subordination,
without hesitation.
I drive slower,
eat longer,
speak deeper,
and slurp my soup
with reckless abandon.

Confidence exudes
and no kingdom is unconquerable
now that I am officially initiated as a
real man
with a beard.

Loathing

Every achievement,
great or small,
whether remembered
or anticipated,
can become a wobbly crutch,
and if leaned upon too heavily,
will suck all the meat and marrow
of real life
from our fragile bones.

I was sitting outside yesterday
May 2nd
on our new patio furniture
trying to decide whether I should
smoke my pipe
or try to go to bed early,
while fending off about 15 other thoughts
banging on my subconscious
about the next big achievements
of the next 9 months.

My thoughts spiraled off towards spring
and new life,
and then.........

I don't know if the air shifted
or a twig snapped
or what,
but my mind stopped.
The present was upon me.
I noticed that my left leg was
shaking spastically,
my stomach was clinched,
and I was grinding my teeth.

I slouched in my chair,
aware
of my chest and stomach rising slowly together,
and my skin
breathing in
all 74 degrees in the air.

Just then a giant turkey buzzard
as deformed
as death-rot
took flight from a branch just above my head
and glared back at me
with loathing.

Coincidence?
I think not.

The Woods

The endless woods of our youth
initiated us into
men.
We became explorers,
hunters, conquistadors.
We were kings down there.

We ruled our kingdom with inflated responsibility
and wreckless joy,
and the wonders we discovered,
imagined,
and still exaggerate,
have sustained us even now.

The river still runs through it all,
only,
the logs we crossed have become slabs of concrete and asphalt,
the vines we swung on have twisted into power lines,
the forts we built have grown into suburbian McMansions
with fences,
and the debris
carried down the current form curses in my mouth
and leave a burning aftertaste of bile.

A Hierarchy of Bums

Okay, so you're a bum.
But you still have choices.
The thing I remember most about Paris
was the music on the subways.
There was a whole symphony of them
each working seperate subway trains
making me feel like a million bucks
so I might fork over one or two.

I was introduced to Vivaldi, Chopin, and Bach.
I didn't know it then,
but Paris is where I fell in love
with classical music.

I remember this one old mangy bum
sitting on the steps of Sacre Coeur
overlooking Montmartre
playing his harp.
I don't think he even noticed
the tobacco stains on his eyelids,
or the lovers gathered round listening, falling in love
with Dvorak's Humoresque No 1,
or the stench of cheese rising from his
tattered shoes,
but I do think he could describe exactly
the smell of spring
creeping over Paris.

Saurkraut

There was nothing especially tough
about Perez.
Nothing that would explain why
the other 8th grade boys would
elevate him
to this level of bully.
In fact, he didn't even like
the pressures of always being on,
always coming up with new insults and torments
for the boys that he would otherwise
like to befriend,
but he was caught in a boyhood snare
compelled by immature facial hair
peeking out
like saurkraut
in an overstuffed bun.

Costco

We join the swarming mob
like a hive of impatient insects
grabbing, clawing,
crawling over and over one another
piling up back-breaking hords of
store-racked, pre-packed
deliciousnesses.

Rack of lamb?
Faw!
Give me the whole bleeting sheep.

A 60lb sack of,
whatever,
just pile it on this endlessly revolving
gluttonous heap
before I swipe my credit card.

Waddle next to me
Help me shove our three carts towards the exit.
Hide behind our toppling piles and avert your eyes
lest ye be
distracted by the $9.99 XLarge with mushrooms.

And then
there you are
Mr. hot dog stand man
with your plumpous suductress
sirens wooing me to their bulging beefiness
on this
the 1st day of the rest of my
sluggish death.

Give us two for the road,
wheat rolls please.

The Black Plague

The old tyrrant leaned back in his chair
and surveyed his armies
marching like a black wave across
the globe.
Strategies, plans, alliances,
everything had been in preparation for this moment.
No time for hesitation or thought,
just action
and thoughtless prayers of a madman
for sixes to face the sky
on his three
red dice.

Old Man Oak

Old man oak

twisted trunk retreating towards

knobby knuckles

scorning sullen sky

skin weathered and worn

from sun and storm

creaking fingers cry.

Small Intestines

The road wore on
on balding tires
tired yawns
stretching through grain and groves
growing dusk on and up
upon open plains of oncoming dawn
drawing nowhere closer
and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
through our small intestines.

Old Wood and Stone

Im told the tales of old
And oh, they stir my soul
I dream of ancient things
Whispering to me

Underneath the wonder
Far beneath the raging sea
Rolling past the thunder
Deep calls unto deep

Oh that sound again
Rumbling through the mountains
Climbing through the trees
Rising to the heavens
And on to Thee.

Saint Benedict

He rose at dawn
sword drawn
eyes slit
running the hard edged line
studying it's full weight and
endless depth
to train alone
but led,
alone
but surrounded
in a battle
unknown and unseen
by the world he fought for
still clothed with
dew and darkness.

Photoshop

O Lord,

Your beauty surrounds me,
Entices me,
Escapes me.

A glimpse appears
Is captured
But blurred.

I can try the auto fix,
Adjusting brightness and contrast
Increasing saturation and hue.

But clarity is limited
With only 100 speed film,
No tripod,
And a landscape stained with permeating
Darkness.

Spring Break

The first day of Spring Break
Can even make
Judge Judy
Tolerable,
Jeuvenille
Worth listening to,
Rollerball 2
Worth watching,
and
Hand blowers
Worth the time to push a second time to get the grooves
Between your fingers
Completely dry.

Global Recruiting

There comes a point in a boy's life
when he realizes
for the first time
that his boyhood dream
of becoming a
professional baseball player
can actually be
calculated
mathematically,
by his accountant father,
to round out
to be about
1 in 1,575,000,
the number increasing rapidly
with a constant rise in immigration and a higher emphasis on
global scouting.

Then it becomes a point in that boy's life
when he can just relax
and enjoy the rest of his
tee-ball season.

Sinking Feeling

You know that
Sinking feeling
You get
Deep down in your heart
Right after you
Rob St. Francis Retirement Community?
Hopefully not.

Vacation

Job well done Bob,
Good work today.

You smell that fresh
Spring air?

You know what that means?
Yessir, only 3 months till
Vacation.

Only 3 more months of
Sinching up that threadbare tie,
Sucking up to just the right guy,
Lying again to cover a lie,
Longing for vacation as your
Life slips by,

Dreading every second of
What you do and
Who you've become
Just to own
A fancier car that has never gotten you
Anywhere better,
An extra bedroom
You actually need now that you
Don't sleep
In the same bed as your wife anymore,
And three weeks paid vacation
That couldn't possibly
Heal
The damage of the past
11 months.

Happy Birthday

Happy Birthday Bob!
Congratulations on
Surviving
For 47 years,
Keep it up!

Oh yeah, and by the way
There is a difference between
Surviving and
Living.

Beauty

I have been searching for something,
Something that I lost
A long time ago.

It is always just outside of my reach.

Part of the problem is that
I forget what it
Looks like.

I have seen glimpses of it
In a dark cavernous pool,
Or a hidden alpine lake,
Or the form of a woman.

And it stops my breath
Because it reminds me of something that
I've never seen,
But that I've always been
Secretly looking for.

Beauty
Frustrates me.

It reminds me of a place I
Have never been
And cannot go,
Yet,
And it always leaves me
Wanting
More.

I Have A Dream

I have a dream
About once a week or so
That there is a
Giant snake
In our
Bed.
It's usually a gigantic
Albino python.

And man, do I go
Nuts,
And man, does Carly
Freak out.
I start smashing the whole bed
With my pillow
And I swear,
Even after I've been awake for a couple minutes,
I swear that it's still there,
But I just can't
Find it.

I'm sure psychologists would say
That it symbolizes some kind of
Mumbo jumbo,
Like I'm maladjusted from childhood,
Or anxious about death,
Or scared of snakes.

So, Carly reassures me that there is
No giant snake in our bed
As I lay back down and wonder about
Symbolism,
And low-cut nightgowns,
And whether I shouldn't prove to her
That there actually is a
Giant albino python
In our bed.

Man nurse, you are truly awesome

There are some truly,
Truly,
Awesome people out there
But they just don't know it
Because they are too busy trying to be
Normal and healthy.

So,
It is a good thing
To run up to these people
Really fast
And tell them that they are really
Awesome,
And to tell them loudly
For inspiration.

Like,
The other day
I saw this old
Male nurse
And he was just walking along
Not even realizing how awesome he was.

So,
I ran up to him,
Like I mentioned before,
And let him know,
Loudly.

I think
He suddenly realized that
I was right
Because he just turned around and
Walked the other way.

Kind of like
A symbolic gesture of
Turning
From his old, extremely dull
Way of life,
And entering into a life of
Extroadinary feats.

Fresh Ink

Old man,
Your boundless depth
Of wisdom and
Experience
Draws me to your
Well.

I am Thirsty.

The fire behind the
Sun and wind of your
Wrinkled eyes
Whispers
"I know God,
Come,
Follow me"

I am hungry.

You are not finished.
Your life is demanded of you
Today
And tomorrow,
And I am here to
Take it.

But I don't know how to
Ask,
And you don't know how to
Offer.

And so
The shade and strength of a
Great oak
Remain hidden behind
Usher handshakes,
Golf carts,
And annual birthday cards
With $20
And no
Fresh
Ink.

Life

It was fear
And wonder
That drew me to last
Approach the
Coffin
And place my trembling
Hand on his chest.
The lack of
Heartbeat
Lifted the awe from
Cold reality.

Death
Illuminates
Life.

Mr. Edwards the Teacher

"Mr. Edwards, you got a haircut"
"Oh, yah, I guess you're right"
"Why did you cut it?"
"I'm very passionate about
Fire Safety,
This way it's less
Flammable"
"Really?"

"Mr. Edwards, what kind of shoes are those?"
"They're armadillo shoes"
"Why is it tan and green?"
"It just happened to be
Changing colors
When they killed it"
"Really?"

"Mr. Edwards, how old is your brother?"
"6 months younger than me"
"So are you twins?"
"I guess,
kind of"

"Mr. Edwards, what are your top 5
Favorite things?"
"Hot tubs, palm trees,
dogs,
shoelace tips, and
beef"
"You like dogs more than your
Wife?"
"She's still top 50"
"Yah, but that's not very nice"
"But of all the things,
In all the world,
Top 50 is a pretty respectable
Percentile"

"Mr. Edwards, what's your favorite quote?"
"Socks before shoes"
"Who said that?"
"I think it's just an old
Wive's Tale"
"That's stupid"
"Pride comes before the
Fall"
"What"
"Exactly"

Practical Jokes

Practical jokes are
Hilarious.
My favorite, classic one, is to walk up to
Someone
And tell them to stand next to you
And they say
"Okay, sure",
But then you keep moving around
And around
Until they are running around
And around
Trying really hard to stand next to you,
Until you both get
So tired
That you just
Fall down exhausted
And just roll around laughing,
And that is a good time to
Introduce yourself.

Offense?

"No offense or anything,
But...................."

What could you possibly end that statement with that
Wouldn't
Be offensive?
".......but your lasagna does'nt really taste like lasagna"
".......but your head is misshapen"
".......but your face looks like, well,
I couldn't even say without
Violently
Throwing up"

That's the whole reason you start out with
"No offense or anything"
Because you know beyond
A shadow of a doubt
That you are about to say the most offensive thing
You have ever said in your
Life,
And the best part is
That you're going to get away with it
Because you threw in the
"No offense or anything" clause.

"...or anything"
What does THAT even mean?
"No offense or....
Or any other negative feelings of
Repulsion,
Disgust,
Or hatred
That you normally would otherwise
Feel
When someone says what
I'm about to say,
And all you have the right to say back is
"Oh,
None taken"

Snow Day Today

I miss spending the night at
Bobby's
When school was cancelled early for snow.
Just having unofficial plans of being
Expected to be with my
friends
And not having any official plans,
Other than going out in the
Snow.
Now another snow day,
Only I'm grown up and just sit at home,
Alone,
And write about it.
Dang it, I'm tired of just
writing abou

Human Fuel Tyrrany

I disagree.
We should go to war over the price of fuel.
Take over countries like
Brazil,
Columbia,
Peru,
Just for their rich, dark,
Fluid gold mines of
Tyrrany.
Seriously, how could you not be
Upset
About paying
$85 per gallon for
Coffee.

Mustard

I knew the right times to say
"Right", or
"Okay", or
"Hmm",
While looking away
Pensively
Every now and then.

All I could think about was that she still had some mustard
On her chin,
My underwear was
Scrunching up,
And the only difference between
Killing a man
And wasting his time
Is just a matter of
Degrees.

Wrestling

My tummy hurt
So I slipped out of the top of our bunkbed
As quietly as I could
Like a ninja
In footie pajamas.
I opened the door of my parents room
And ran straight back to our room
To wake Tommy up.

"Tom, mom and dad are
Wrestling,
And I think
Mom's winning!"

So,
We put on our capes
And charged.

Country Music

Do you think
If a hardcore
Gangsta
Rapper
Put on a cowboy hat
And rapped with a drawl,
That it would be considered
Country music?
Most people would say
"No"
But they would be wrong,
Because It
Would,
And I would still
Hate
Country Music.

Sick

I was sick this weekend.
Pretty sick,
Like 102 temp.
Which is a lot for me
Because I've never really had a fever before.
I stayed in bed all weekend.
Like, literally 20 hours a day.
It was kind of cool though,
Just laying around like my dogs do all day long,
With nothing to worry about,
No cares at all.
Except the fact that I felt like Hell
And wanted to die.

I really thought that I wouldn't mind
Dying,
And I wasn't really even that sick.

During one of the four hours that I was up this weekend
I watched a Discovery Channel special
About this couple who was lost at sea,
And they survived for 100 days off turtles, fish, and rainwater.

Unicorns

O.M.G.!
I am so normal.
I use the same abbreviations as everyone else
Like R.O.T.G.L.
Even though I've never actually laughed
So hard
That I had to roll on the ground,
And I like all the current POP bands,
And I don't like classical music
Even though I do.
But I am an individual.
I am unique and different in some sort of way.
I'll prove it.
I just turned 30
And realized I don't really exist
On my own,
So I'll decide that I LOVE UNICORNS.
I L.O.V.E. them.
I will collect an ungodly amount of them for the rest of my life
And EVERYONE will know that I am the
Unicorn Lady.
Because that's who I AM.
Unicorns DEFINE me.
And Oprah, Craig Kilborn and PEOPLE magazine
Will let me know
What the rest of my opinions are.

Hurricane

Where do they all come from?
This war-torn battle zone rolls into a raging
Storm.
They swarm around and around
Appearing and reappearing all around me.
I can't tell where they all come from
Even though I'm watching them
with crazed, burning eyes.
Crawling, swarming, pinching, touching,
yelling, running, yelling, shouting, yelling,
asking questions,
asking, asking.
My body begins to shut down, to give up,
My eyes glaze over
And the swarming mass blurs into nothing.
My jaw drops in relaxation
And I pray for snow
As I dismiss my last class for lunch
And lounge my chair back
In the eye of a
Hurricane.

Beanstalks

It cropped out of the dusty ground
And grew and grew like a beanstalk.
Because it was a beanstalk.
Until I started climbing it and realized
That it wasn't a beanstalk at all,
But a ladder
Going from nowhere
To nowhere,
And I'm still making less than $30,000
And going insane.
Beanstalks?
Yah, and next you'll tell me
I'm fit for
Drastic psychological counseling.
Oh, you are telling me that?
Alright, let's do this.

Something New

Welp, here's my new blog.
There's nothing as inspiring as a new blog, all ready for fresh new stuff.
The key is to write the perfect first entry into your perfect new blog, and not go and blow it by writing about what to write.