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.