Stag Pool Party.

(A Farmer’s Insurance commercial that literally makes me laugh so hard I nearly hyper-ventilate, every time).

NOTE: Between the second and third scenes with the lights coming on, the diving board in the background…omfg…

 

Professional .

Muscles cramping,

frozen painfully,

disjointed wrists,

repetitive twist,

carpal tunneling,

fingers sorely swollen,

longwinded joint-rolling,

digital profundity,

wounded dorsally,

gone totally numb,

down the trapezium,

perpetual arthralgia,

a tedious income.

 

 

Timbre.

(This is a piece written with my favorite audio-book narrator Simon Vance as my muse.)

I try to think back to how it began

to the moment I was the putty in his hand

words in a timbre that’s fit to command

I fall down at the sound of a word from this man…

a naturally true spoken certainty

inherent to a Gentleman’s legacy

a smooth tone driving home Life’s mysteries

the drone I’ve come to know so well in my sleep…

at some point, I fell heavily and hit head on

the final moments of my beloved Sydney Carton

my very own Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,

the U.S.S. Terror and the late Sir John Franklin…

The humbled Prince in a Tolstoy tale

the tiny fangs and iridescent fingernails

like a sponge I absorb, until I inevitably swell

the “James Bond accent” that’s got me chasing my tail.

Sunrise and ADHD.

What does this morning’s dawning want to bring to me?
I could wash the wood floors, or climb a tall tree;
I could force myself to get my lab work done, finally;
Or I could sit on the beach and get stoned, like I want to be.

Maybe I’ll go hide in the library…
I can read my favorite books endlessly;
Surprise Sensei Han when I show up for karate;
Or just sit on my ass at my desk and write poetry.

Perhaps I will lead, in high speed – at the racetrack, again;
Or maybe shit some overpriced ammo down the drain;
I could always go hiking and get lost in the rain;
I’m partial to the idea of a tattoo gun’s special pain.

Today might be the day I dive for abalone;
Or decide to set my family of society finches free;
I just never know what’s in store for me;
With a mind so confined by its A.D.H.D.

A Woman and Two Men.

It’s come to where I can’t help but to finally say,

after biting my tongue for two years’ worth of days,

over things ever done in the stupidest ways,

by the two gentlemen who I call my roommates;

 

the idiocy that shines through each one’s daily moves,

leaves me stuck there on stupid like gum on a shoe,

instead of applying any logic to the shit that they do,

they form a tempest of absurdity and sweep right on through;

 

it would kill either one to rinse his cereal bowl,

       before impetuously stacking them in a mile-high row,

right next to the sink where they good and well know,

that I will wash them in order to see out the kitchen window;

 

dirty camping trip laundry and mildewed swim trunks,

overflowing garbage cans that appear to have blown up,

my family room is littered with dollar bills and empty cups,

my back yard decorated with engine oil and cigar butts;

 

and, though I know it isn’t born of grandiosity,

and that my boys must suffer from what’s sheer stupidity,

neither one seems bothered by existing so confusedly,

one day attaches to the next with such mindless simplicity;

 

bottles left on the front porch step when the trash can is nearby,

things that make such little sense that I often want to cry,

toilet seat ever-up, missing socks, poison oak in both my eyes,

stains and spots, rotting apricots, and the associated flies;

 

they hardly wonder why people say that I mother them,

it’s like I live with two schoolboys, ages eight and ten,

any alternative to the drill is hard to let myself imagine,

and so, it goes, the side-show starring a woman and two men.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ode to a Young Buck in a Liquor Store.

I couldn’t help but to smile under my Jackie O’s,

after being hit on by some 20-year-old,

who stared like I was a spread-eagle centerfold,

a boost to my battered and tattered ego,

 

I was dressed like a Female Assassin en Vogue,

a hoodie and shades, cause that’s just how I roll,

but the kid still told me that I was beautiful,

as he passed me by on his way out the door.

 

Pushing Buttons.

What…?
You honestly thought,
that my DNA forgot,
the dealer of
such a lethal drug?
When you’ve
got me tethered,
weathered and wrought;
and you’ve
got me pleasured,
treasure the thought;
What…?
say you didn’t mean,
to imply anything,
through the carelessness,
of your pretentiousness,
When you’ve
got me all twisted,
insistent on foolishness;
and you’ve
still persisted,
pushing buttons like this.