Ω: Float and gloat, that’s my motto.
ç: Easy for you to say, flying toaster.
Ω: Suck my chrome.
Category: Poetry
NaPoWriMo VIII
You waltz along,
123 123 123,
sticking your tongue out at me.
Do you want me to join you?
Are you being a tease?
My issue with this is no small thing.
You can waltz along, sure,
that’s no skin off my teeth.
Just give me the essence
of the message you’re sending
so I don’t spend the rest
of my spring and summer days
waiting for something
that may or may not be true.
NaPoWriMo VII
Fall out of that lovely turnip hole soil
and cough up that dirt, we’re not poor.
No, we’re not leaving this place just yet.
I have to feel something warmer than that.
Warmer than what? A ground pepper flake
on the tip of your tongue or a flypaper
waxing session, somewhere in between.
You can’t do it yourself, it’s not a surprise.
No, we have to wait. Didn’t you bring a book?
You really should read more. Yeah, really.
I don’t mean to come off as arrogant! Come on,
how long have we known each other? I give you tips
that I hope will help you to be the best you.
What’s so bad about that?
Aside from looking like a nerd…
A sexy nerd?
That’s better, let’s go with that.
NaPoWriMo VI: Gift Tag
For Fern:
This is the biggest unicycle in the world, seventeen-feet long and manufactured only for display purposes. If your ceilings aren’t high enough to accommodate such a generous gift, I’d be willing to take it off your hands. Don’t try to ride it, I broke three ribs that way.
Love,
Grandpa
NaPoWriMo V
Lunging farther than the snow should allow requires skill to the extent of a jaguar mixed with a polar bear during the warmest months in the Arctic Circle, but it’s not really that difficult if you have faith in yourself.
Or is it?
NaPoWriMo IV
He just hangs over that plate,
about to put the fork in the pantry
when a loathsome crouton grins and bares its fangs.
You wouldn’t think it was much of a man-eater,
blood had never touched its lips. Poor Chip. Poor poor Chip.
If only he hadn’t forgotten where the forks go.
NaPoWriMo III
When you’re certain that you have the answer, write it down on a half-sheet of paper and give it to me. Ms. Curtis is going to go and imbibe toxic amalgamations in the corner over there. No need to worry about what those big words mean, Ms. Curtis wouldn’t do anything bad, would she kids?
That’s right.
WHARVED 