Category: Poetry

The Mood for Obstacles

That dreaded stairway of mine… I don’t quite understand why folks are afraid to come up to my door, even in broad daylight. I suppose the spikes and schnauzers at the bottom can be a little intimidating if you’re not in the mood for obstacles, but it’s smooth sailing the rest of the way up–at least until you come across the live gargoyles.

But come on, nobody [who didn’t deserve it] has ever been attacked by these peaceful creatures. They prefer to leave well enough alone and read a good book most of the time. They’re not going to go out of their way to cause mischief, that’s what imps are for.

And you don’t have to worry about running into imps unless I invite you inside, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. I only invite people with strong purple auras to join me inside my dwelling. I have, in the past, made exceptions for blue auras, since they still contain the rudimentary elements I prize highly in individuals.

Good Work, Inspector

It’s as though we stopped thinking
about what people might do and began
reacting appropriately to the actions
they actually carry out as an attempt
to build up their images in our eyes.

And I know what you’re thinking:
“You can’t possibly know that for a fact.”

Well, you caught me.
Good work, inspector.

However, there’s one thing you failed
to consider. I haven’t been proven wrong
on a hunch of mine [not a single time]
since 1983, and I don’t think you’ve got
the guts to dispute me on my moral high horse.

I ride in on my mighty steed and wage
war on negativity until I’m blue
in the face and meaner than a pirate
two days after shore leave’s over.

Bitten Nails [Reserved]

Tell it not
how you are
or how you act
around company.

Just tell
where we lie
and how we eat
within submarines.

Strawberries can float
down there, she says
as I grin from ear to ear.

We hadn’t known that until
one summer night underwater
with our best friends in tow.

Pressurized peers popped their ears
to the deafening steely screech

and scratched at their eyelids
with jagged bitten nails
reserved for panic attacks.

But look, in the distance,
a perfect ripe strawberry
floating innocent, supple, sublime
through the hull to the bridge
[where Diego swallowed it whole].

This memory is not as fond of us
as we think it ought to be–

but we always persevere
and find better friends.

Deluxe, Gargantuan

Before anything must really take place here,
let’s just remember what brought us to this point
of denial and humorless envy for a goddamn pickle.

Are we both too callous to see our foolishness
and obvious desire for a fight whenever possible?

It’s not like we ever really whooped each other
into a froth or a frenzy, but words have been said
that neither of us will unhear as long as we live.

Poultry guts, harpsichord licker on a Sunday night,
tickle-me-princess, tumbling ghost face deluxe,
gargantuan pimple pushing troll doll salesman.

Splintered Material

Full-on rage meanders
back to the dresser
and tosses throwing stars
at the formica counter,

bouncing sparks and splintered material
all over the place while
aged mosquito catchers
grumble about old times
before the internet.

Lost and Found

Spotted in the lost and found today:

two purple camisoles
a jock strap signed by Darryl Strawberry
a liter of Polish carrot juice
club tickets to the 1979 World Series
a monkey turban (most likely from the organ grinder)
a wool scarf, brown
Stephen Hawking’s eyelash
and a twelve gallon hat.

Note: The twelve gallon hat may simply be a reflection of shoddy workmanship, though I did not detect a difference in size from the other ten gallon hats I’ve seen in this restaurant.

Pick Up the Pace

Cool Charlie Mace
never had a reason to race
‘cept that time four years ago.

He took to the streets
with grassroots campaigns
and promises of alternative fuels.

But then when he faltered,
he lost his young fans
to the dragstrip
of irreconcilable agony.

It wasn’t even his idea
to run in the first place.