Inanimate Dingo Friend

I thrifted a dingo from a local wildlife sell-off emporium; the fella had a cartridge for a brain. Wild this dingo was not, likely built by an animal replicator to decorate the grasslands, pre-programmed to bark at sudden movements. I took out the cartridge with care, blew into it and replaced it. The only change I noticed was a small tick that popped off every thirty seconds or so. I removed the cartridge once more and got the inside with a moist cotton swab. This time the dingo froze completely, and I took it back for a full refund, only to learn that all sales are final. My inanimate dingo friend now stands in the living room, staring at the TV.

A Good Book or Two

Now that I’ve achieved
all my hopes and dreams,
even the ones
that had been abandoned
at previous times of weakness,
I can finally settle down
and write a good book or two.

After all, people like me
need to display their success
and offer a way for others
to enter that picture, even if
that means charging $24.99
for such invaluable advice.

The Kitsch Factor

Forty-five dollars
is a somewhat outrageous price
for this vintage cigarette case.
It doesn’t even have
any bells or whistles
to sweeten the deal,
just a spring hinge
and a picture of a schooner.
I’m not what you would call
a boating enthusiast,
I’d just be getting it
for the kitsch factor.
Hell, I don’t even smoke.

It May Be Hiding

When inspiration fails to strike,
don’t give up on pursuing
the elusive beast known as creativity.
It may be hiding in the bushes
just behind you, waiting to pounce
when you’re least suspecting,
poised on its haunches
and not daring to make a sound.
As you stumble around,
creativity is looking for any excuse
to ambush you and drag you
down to the stream of consciousness.

Purely by Accident

I kicked over the iced tea
purely by accident
and along came a mole man,
or a man made of moles,
I can’t quite recollect
much these days anyway.
What with the internet and all,
there’s so much to be discussed,
or discus-ed, tossed
into the breeze
and left on a whim
without the cream filling.

So I drank
the rest of the tea
left in the cup and stood up.
I proclaimed to the world
that today is just one
of many such days,
and it’s only a matter of time
before all those days
catch up with you.

I sat back down uncomfortably
because of the pool
forming at my feet.
My left leg quivered
and I rose once again,
wetting my shoes
in what was once
an important beverage.

I laughed to the Gods,
“My word,
what an insufferable foe
this liquid has proven to be.
I must sidestep this situation
and allow for more space.”


Why should a couch matter
when all we need to do
is unearth the twelfth installment
of a well-read publication
from before the dawn of the internet?

Sitting is the last thing
we should be contemplating.
Even contemplating
the idea of contemplating sitting
is boring as all get-out.

The Past Landscape

A fleeting expanse of dandelions
doesn’t know it’s considered
an urban nuisance, a weed factory
in the heart of civilization.
It rolls through grass
and paints a yellow picture
of the past landscape, now foreign.

Feather Boa Situation

What we need
is some kind of
feather boa situation, where
donning such a garment
would be considered
a boost to morale
in this organization,
especially since
we’re so concerned
with increasing sales
of pinecone-inspired trinkets
to be displayed
prominently in the home.

Sidewalk Banana

When you behold
the average sidewalk banana,
you wonder if it’ll bounce
when you throw it against the ground.

But you dare not touch the fruit;
who knows where it’s been?
If you were braver,
you’d pick it up and eat it.

Sandwiches Are Nice

Do these people even care that their sole reason for existence is to make sandwiches for their so-called benevolent overlords? I wonder if an impartial observer has ever mentioned this to them, to make them think of alternatives for living. For example, instead of making sandwiches, they could be making wind chimes or clay vases. There are so many other things in this universe, I can’t believe sandwiches are the be-all end-all. I get it, sandwiches are nice and loaded with value in the form of meats, cheeses and vegetables (even fruit the way some of these weirdos make them), and the action of composing a complete sandwich must have some pleasure associated with it. I don’t want to be the bad guy, I’ll keep my mouth shut and even make a few sandwiches of my own to blend in. I just can’t believe that they blindly burn up their finished products in the name of religious sacrifice. I’ve seen some messed up dogma in my time, but this takes the cake.

A Guy for That

The car door could use some WD-40. Hell, my knees could use some WD-40 while we’re at it. You’re probably not the right person to grease up my joints, you just work on cars. Do you know a guy who could fix me up with a minimally-invasive procedure of some kind? I really wish my joints were on the outside like the Tin Man’s. Well, why not? I’m sure it can be done for the right price. There’s probably a guy for that too. I have seventy-eight dollars at my disposal, I’ll bet I can have something done if my insurance picks up most of it. I can only imagine the newfound flexibility and freedom of movement; I’d have an unfair advantage over most folks. But you know what? I’d probably be disqualified from participating in any dance competitions. Never mind, I can never give up my right to get funky in front of judges. Just the WD-40 on the car door, please. Thank you.

In the Meantime

There are 4,952 channels on TV and zero worth watching at the moment. Twenty minutes ago there were seven decent programs, and in ten minutes there will be another four worth watching. In the meantime, I’m left to my own devices and unable to comprehend anything worth doing. I’m so used to the instant gratification of television that I’ve developed the habit of staring blankly at one of two things: television and nothing in particular. Ten minutes of staring at nothing in particular might cause a rupture of some sort. I haven’t been left alone to think for myself in years, not since school if I can recollect. This is going to be excruciating, I don’t know if I can take so much idle time (that doesn’t involve absorbing TV). Wait! There’s an episode of Loch Ness Monster Hunters right now, I can’t believe I missed it! Thank God. No thinking for me any time soon.

Toast (Now Cold)

The peanut butter’s chilly, straight from the fridge. It’s not spreading very well. The more I try to smooth an even surface across the bread, the more crumbs I’m sloughing off (onto the floor). By the time I’m done with this mess, I’ll be lucky to have half the bread I started out with. Then I’ll have to get out the vacuum and dispatch with the mess I just made in the kitchen, only to notice that as I clean the floor in there, the rest of the apartment will also need a cleaning. Only when I’m done vacuuming the rest of the floor will I notice the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling, which then must be removed to match the cleanliness of the floors. After that, the rest of the surfaces between the floor and ceiling will need dusting, just so I can have some equilibrium.

Once that’s done I’ll break out a beer and finally eat that peanut butter toast (now cold). I can worry about the giant snot monster in the corner some other day, I just got a bunch of good work done and I deserve this beer.

A Pointier Version

I’ve been left alone with a pocket knife and my own thoughts out here. The most productive thing I can do is whittle this stick to have a pointy end (or better yet, two pointy ends). I never got very good at carving, everything just ends up a pointier version of what it once was. What can I even do with a pointy stick anyway? I’ll toss it like a tiny javelin, try to snare a bird from midair. Realistically, if I even manage to hit a bird, the stick will just bounce off anyway. I’d be better off lying on my back and looking at clouds, waiting for someone to carry me away to Mount Olympus so I can sip ambrosia until the sunset.

Soccer to Baseball

In accordance with Mr. Tartaroff’s wishes, every member of this baseball team shall perform a pirouette every time he rounds a base, then breakdance to the best of his ability upon crossing home plate. Our sister soccer team is exempt from performing these actions, as Mr. Tartaroff always preferred soccer to baseball if he had to choose between the two.

More Tambourine

Jimmy, Telly and Cliff stand in front of Jimmy’s open garage, stiff after hauling car parts around. “We need more tambourine,” Jimmy said with exasperation.

Telly looked at Jimmy quizzically. “We don’t have a tambourine.”

“What kind of a band doesn’t have a tambourine?”

“We’re not a band.” Telly snuffed out his cigarette with his boot. “We’ve been selling used car parts out of the back of your truck for six years.”

“Well, I’m tired of this arrangement. Can’t a guy form a band around here anymore? I have a perfectly good garage to practice in, we just need to exchange our used car parts for instruments and we’ll be set. I’m thinking rockabilly.”

Telly hates being the voice of reason. “This is just like the time you got the brilliant idea to start a petting zoo in your back yard. Remember how the coyote ate all the rabbits and you shot Cliff in the arm when you tried to kill it?”

“This is not just like that.” Jimmy sincerely believes what he’s saying. “The only weapon I’ll need this time is my axe for jamming in our rockabilly band. Come on, let’s do it.”

“Not this time, Jimmy. Fool me twice, shame on you. Fool me three times, shame on me.”

“I’m with Telly on this one,” says Cliff.

“Shut up, Cliff,” Jimmy and Telly exclaim in unison.

Leave It to a Lemur

Leave it to a lemur
to freeload in your mud bath
and skip out without paying the bill.

I’m tired of these lemurs
sneaking onto my property
and using the facilities
that I worked so hard
to put together.

Maybe if they pitched in
a few bucks here or there,
I wouldn’t be in such a bad mood
every time this happens.

I can’t wait until the circus
pulls out of town
and takes away these damn primates.
It’d better be soon, before these lemurs
get too comfortable around here.

I’d kick them or throw something
at them, but I already told my guru
that I’ve committed to non-violence.

Equally Afraid

I’m always on the defensive
because I’m afraid.
Afraid of what, I never know.
I’m just equally afraid of everything.

No, wait, that’s a copout.

I’m definitely more afraid
of certain things than others,
like cherry fruit pies
as opposed to swarms of bees.

I suppose I’m also
less afraid of the chicken dance
than I am of fuzzy teddy bears,
and lime wedges definitely irk me less
than jumbo coffee mugs.

But really, outside of those things,
I can pretty much say
I’m equally afraid of everything else.

Pass the Broccoli

“This town doesn’t have any eggplant! I’m seriously considering leaving. Everybody here’s been suckered in by the big broccoli lobby, with all their damn grant money and infrastructure improvements. What’s the point of new roads, rapid transit and a new high school if you’re giving up your right to eat eggplant, squash, cucumbers, anything that’s not this god-forsaken broccoli menace? Big broccoli has ruined our town. Let’s go, you guys.”

Geraldo’s plea has fallen on deaf ears. Everybody around the table does their best to avoid eye contact.

“Who’s coming with me?” Still no eye contact. “Anyone? All right, fine, you cowards. Can’t someone at least call my bluff? Jesus Christ, fine, I’m not leaving. I just really want some goddamn eggplant.” Geraldo heaves a long and heavy sigh. “Pass the broccoli, would ya?”