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?