Scones and Stones

No-good trubish remedy sentinels
just continue to badger me
as I TRY
to make my way to Sand Hose “A”
(what a jerkwater berg anyway, am I right?).

An impartial influence
on the growth region
of my intercontinental mental health
has got me reeling for an alternative
to cheesy misheard lyrics.
There is, however, none to be found.

It would appear, my dear mentor once told me
(over scones and stones, I wasn’t fond
of the stones but I tolerated the scones)
that black and white considerations
have torn this here nation limb from limb,
while the attemptive peacemakers
intervene at inconvenient intervals,
knocking rhetoric around
like any of it makes a difference.

I’ve batted at this idea
for far longer than I’d care to admit,
so I’m just gonna shut my mouth
before the weight of my convictions
puts a pox on my house. Or
was that a box on my mouse?
I wasn’t paying attention.

My Obsessive Tendencies

Standing here in the rain
is going to be a tough assignment,
especially since it’s a Tuesday.

I don’t know what Tuesday
really has to do with it,
but I know that the sound you make

on a Tuesday morning – over coffee,
not without buttered scones – really
irks me. Typically 8:46am, but

sometimes 9:15. It’s as though
your internal clock were tuned to an
interstellar annoyance-based alarm system,

designed specifically to take advantage
of my obsessive tendencies.

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