Category: Poetry

The Miracle of Moisture

Trefoil tattoos mark the patch of skin where Washington holds the fragments of his battered lip balm container to his heart and sobs like a little girl. He doesn’t remember where or when the cheap possession came to be his, but his cherishing moments are seldom overlooked.

He remembers how windbeaten his lips had been that dry winter day, and how he bundled himself against the elements to at least attempt relieving some of the pain of existing in those conditions.

Suddenly he came upon a convenience store, open 24 hours a day and boasting wonderful room temperature. He dug into his pockets for currency, procuring three dollars and change. He was overjoyed to learn that lip balm only cost a buck seventy-nine. He accepted the two dimes and a penny with his left hand while applying lip-saving moisture with his right.

And now that the balm tin is depleted of product, Washington keeps it in his left breast pocket to remind him of the wonders of the civilized world while providing ceremonial protection against bullets aimed at his heart.

Earnest Exploration

What happened to the time where sputtering out trivial fantasies had its place in life, had value and a genuine right to exist in the sphere? It must still be around here somewhere, but I need a little help to find it.

Since the totality of existence is comprised of infinite facets of one thought and one moment, tapping into the creative consciousness takes no more than a few seconds of earnest exploration. For example:

Tulip slipper guardians wear rings the size of their fists. They’re not very practical, the guardians nor the rings, but that doesn’t matter when the bulk of their livelihood is concentrated upon the judgment of ornate flowers and involves virtually no physical labor. Contests are held once per month (as the tulips bloom) in Snidely Square, and no person has ever won more than once. Odd when you consider the fact that there has never been a grouping larger than ten contestants in each of the first thirty-three affairs. Nole Gronsky, head judge and Snidely Square curator, takes pride in diversity, and will not let a winner (or a second-place finisher, for that matter) participate in another contest until their age has doubled from the last contest in which they participated. Marge Franklin is first on the list to compete after winning. She was twenty-three years of age upon attaining the title, and the event happened sixteen years ago. When asked how she’s been biding her time, Marge simply said: “Oh yes, I do suppose I’d like to try that again. Thanks for reminding me.”

The Moment You Leave

For the longest time, I wondered why the jungle had become so distracting.
It lacked the crucial element of rainfall. I couldn’t understand it.
It was too lush to have a dry spell, but it cracked and burned.
And now I’m left with the charred remains of my tiki shack,
sipping a sangria and wondering why I ever came out here.

Hector Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

It’s not even a matter of physical science,
it’s really more of a toboggan wrecker,
if you know what I mean. You don’t?
Well, maybe I don’t either.

Just stop by the arena, ya can’t miss it.
For how many years have we stood in this line?
Can’t be more than seven. I’m surprised I can’t remember.

We have enough water to make it for a while.
Just a while. Not a short while, though.
Possibly a long while, though the water needs to hang around.

Squabbling Greystone Cobblers

And

you can hear that
upcoming snapshot–

it darts and
stabs you in the eye
when you’re not looking.

What is it?

Are we entranced?

Are we a squabbling mass
of greystone cobblers?

The answer
is all of the above.

Stepped on and Wrinkled

You just held
your principles
close to your chest,

I can see your face
glowing with pride.

But you must be aware
of the unstated law
you just stepped on
and wrinkled.

Turn around,
get the steam iron.
You’re fixing this one.

I’ve seen too many folks
disregard the situation;
I’m sick of it.

Maybe I’m guilty
of doing the same,
but

that’s not for you
to judge at the moment.

Something Slurpy and Salty

We built a castle from marshmallow rock,
the rarest of edible materials.
I’m tempted to eat it, but then
our investment would be swirling
around in my stomach.

Just tie my hands behind my back,
I can feel hunger pangs coming on.

You can feed me some soup,
something slurpy and salty
that’ll tide me over–

until the brigade comes
marching up the block.
Brigade comes marching up the block.