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?
Category: Poetry
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.
NaPoWriMo II
Hand me that spatula. The one over there. On the counter. The other counter.
No, that’s the kitchen shears. Big difference.
Don’t you know what a spatula looks like?
No, that’s an ice cream scoop.
You’re getting closer, at least.
NaPoWriMo I
I’m never late for a very important date,
except tonight. This is the one exception.
I usually gallop in at a quarter to the hour,
I swear to the head of Zeus. Zeus, I say.
You want to know what caused it?
Being late, that is.
Are you sure you can handle it?
It’s a fairly obstreperous tale.
I sneezed at the waterfront.
No big deal, right?
The python junkies from Cupertino
hit up that spot every Tuesday.
They communicate with fake sneezes.
The more realistic they sound,
the bigger the turf war gets.
Well I had a juicy one.
They must have thought there was a fire.
Yep
Q: What is it you want to tell me?
A: I can’t tell you that.
Q: Why not? You just said you want to.
A: Figure of speech.
Q: Why even flap your gums at all?
A: Free country.
Q: You always give up.
A: At least I ain’t no got damn democrat.
Unfinished Space, Face It
It’s time to get it out again, that April Fool’s brigade of gawping little spectacles and pincushions. Plunked down to the dirt, straight down to where the sun don’t hurt, and it fades. In the moldy old crawlspace that smells like it always has; it’s damp and fecund enough to become its own ecosystem.
You breathe deeply and salute the millipedes (but run and hide from the centipedes). Your blood runs twice as fast, but it’s not from that overcheesed burger down the street. Then you wonder how long you can stay in this unfinished trap.
I’d say you can escape to that place forever, but you’d have to subsist on bugs. The water quality just isn’t the same as from the tap, and you never have dry feet. But at least you have yourself, and that’s what really matters anyway. Take away the frills and shouldn’t we all be so lucky as to call ourselves at home in a safe, secluded place that only your thoughts can occupy. Not the mailman, not the chef, not the computer repair person.
But then shouldn’t you let other people know about this spot? It’s near and dear to your heart, and you have so many things to show them. But you have this imp tugging at your shirt tails and poking your gut, threatening to do that for all eternity if you give away the secret.
WHARVED 