Stop that there, ya hear?
It’s not time for more snow
until I tell you
it’s time for more snow.
Last time you didn’t heed my wishes,
I was forced to raise my voice
and bang on the pots and pans for four hours,
to the chagrin of my family and next-door neighbors.
Only when you finally decided to pull
that cloud from over my neighborhood
did I relent. I’m fully prepared to do the same again,
even if it means the cops will have to get in on the action.
The well-adjusted, socially-conscious
representation of Man’s better half
is fully cognizant of just how shitty
a person he really is, but she can’t help
hoping there’s some way to change
his behavior in a permanent way.
She’ll undertake a relationship as a challenge,
a ceaseless battle to be fought until:
a) she wins
b) she gets fed up with the whole thing
c) she dies while suffering under unlimited contractual obligation.
I won’t drag out the inevitable if it means that you’ll turn into a puddle on the floor before I’m even getting to the point of my visit. It pains me to be the errand boy for these kinds of things, even if I am getting paid handsomely.
You’ve undoubtedly noticed how much things are heating up around here, and you probably wouldn’t be surprised to hear that your landlord doesn’t much like your style of living. I chalk it up to good old-fashioned prejudice and ignorance.
That being said, he’s giving you 48 hours to pack up and find another place to live. He wants to wish you good luck in the future, especially when it comes to affording a place where you can let your popsicles just sit out on the kitchen table.
Everything falls
on top of everything else
in the waystation
of our shattered consciousness,
building pressure
and adding weight
where a sane person
would shrug
and go about the day
as though uncompromised
by circumstance and accumulation–
aware of the fact,
ignoring it for progress
[or so they say].
There’s nothing
like constantly haranguing
the world into submission
with your evocative words
and pro-life agendas,
especially if
you wear tailored suits
and carry an unlit cigar
with you wherever you go.
Fell upon a sixteen-pound cookie baked by Eleanor Roosevelt,
then tumbled into the mine shaft connecting Florida to Wyoming.
Made a right turn at wherever the wild prairies blew ragweed,
but had to double back away from the prairie dogs.
Ran through a tunnel built for giants to feast within,
realized those giants were hungry for supper,
leapt out of my skin and bled to death.
A half-baked carp cheek croissant smears in the oven
as the room rotates itself a full 90 degrees,
never to return to its original orientation.
Spread too thin, the pastry burns within minutes
and catches fire, as any good pastry should.
The fire, fueled by neglect,
engulfs the cabinets and cutting boards
before the leisurely smoke detector decides it’s had enough.
WHARVED 