Category: Poetry

The peanut butter’s chilly, straight from the fridge. It’s not spreading very well. The more I try to smooth an even surface across the bread, the more crumbs I’m sloughing off (onto the floor). By the time I’m done with this mess, I’ll be lucky to have half the bread I started out with. Then I’ll have to get out the vacuum and dispatch with the mess I just made in the kitchen, only to notice that as I clean the floor in there, the rest of the apartment will also need a cleaning. Only when I’m done vacuuming the rest of the floor will I notice the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling, which then must be removed to match the cleanliness of the floors. After that, the rest of the surfaces between the floor and ceiling will need dusting, just so I can have some equilibrium.

Once that’s done I’ll break out a beer and finally eat that peanut butter toast (now cold). I can worry about the giant snot monster in the corner some other day, I just got a bunch of good work done and I deserve this beer.

I’ve been left alone with a pocket knife and my own thoughts out here. The most productive thing I can do is whittle this stick to have a pointy end (or better yet, two pointy ends). I never got very good at carving, everything just ends up a pointier version of what it once was. What can I even do with a pointy stick anyway? I’ll toss it like a tiny javelin, try to snare a bird from midair. Realistically, if I even manage to hit a bird, the stick will just bounce off anyway. I’d be better off lying on my back and looking at clouds, waiting for someone to carry me away to Mount Olympus so I can sip ambrosia until the sunset.

Thieves made off
with our last
shred of decency

when I was
this close to
pawning it off
to cover
the month’s rent.

A pointy spindle
poked the sky; it was
a particularly tall spindle
with a tendency
to dislike authority figures,
God included.

In accordance with Mr. Tartaroff’s wishes, every member of this baseball team shall perform a pirouette every time he rounds a base, then breakdance to the best of his ability upon crossing home plate. Our sister soccer team is exempt from performing these actions, as Mr. Tartaroff always preferred soccer to baseball if he had to choose between the two.

Leave it to a lemur
to freeload in your mud bath
and skip out without paying the bill.

I’m tired of these lemurs
sneaking onto my property
and using the facilities
that I worked so hard
to put together.

Maybe if they pitched in
a few bucks here or there,
I wouldn’t be in such a bad mood
every time this happens.

I can’t wait until the circus
pulls out of town
and takes away these damn primates.
It’d better be soon, before these lemurs
get too comfortable around here.

I’d kick them or throw something
at them, but I already told my guru
that I’ve committed to non-violence.