Posts tagged: poetry
mommy scolds puppy
for snacking on shoes. puppy
sighs; he’s soooooo deprived
puppy romps on by,
shows off to his daddy, finds
a big stick and squeals
bending tiny knees
Camo pinpoints clean carpet—
humans nearby freak!
Pumpkin loaf,
are you listenin’?
Mid-Starbucks,
my mouth is glistenin’.
A beautiful day,
my hunger’s at bay,
snackin’ at the 1st Ave. location.
Skinny mirror, skinny mirror, on the dressing room wall,
Since when are my proportions that of a Barbie doll?
His name was Too Tall
He was a show skier
With silver sequins all up in there
And a faux-hawk in his hair
He would base pyramids and do strap doubles
And while he made himself a star
Lindifer watched from afar
Across the beach and rocks
She clapped and she adored
They were young and they had each other
Who could ask for more?
At the Missi (Missi!) Mississippi
The hottest spot west of Poughkeepsie!
Here at the Missi (Missi!) Mississippi
Skiing and drinking were all they were thinking
At the Missi….
There once was a brunette with hives
Who hated insects—even flies!
Then her boyfriend found out
That she’d never had trout
And he made her poke worms without eyes
There once was a class by Hartun
Where a boy saw a girl and he swooned
Since he had no moves
He wrote her haikus
And he lit the girl up like the moon
there once was a light purple study guide
that made me sweat balls and feel terrified
til you snatched up my notes
and then rewrote my lobes
now I’m fit to be no. 2 pencilfied
[I think I will keep him]
leftovers monger
consuming my stir fry—
put down the soy sauce
snow fort engineers
plead for hot cocoa under
a birdless blue sky
December has come and nearly gone. I love winters but they’re nothing like the winters of my childhood. Where are the stockpiles of snow drifts and why am I still being awoken by birds screaming outside my window? Maybe I was just oblivious to seasonal imperfections as a child. Maybe the birds were always there and I’m just growing bitter toward them as I get old and senile. Then again, maybe the birds are getting old and senile and don’t understand that they’re freezing to death. Or maybe the whining, crying peddlers of “climate change” are right after all.
No, that can’t be it.
Pressure’s on January. Bring it.
I am a waitress—
watching you and your sloppy, slurring companion gaily flee your booth, a would-be breeding ground if not for stringent social norms and arbitrary health codes.
I am a waitress—
soaking a bar rag in 100 proof cocktail condensation; seeing what I believe to be a rebel napkin resting beneath your booth; bending at the knees to retrieve the paper runaway; agonizing over the realization that a rebel napkin it is not…
I am a waitress—
plucking with bare hands a blue pair of underpants abandoned beneath your booth; inhaling sharply at the horrid sight unfolding before my eyes; fetching a broom, a dustpan, and a guinea pig named William who goes fishing for garments and returns with a wad of blue and brown nasty.
I am a waitress—
contending with your sickly, obstinate gropes, rogue salsa splatter, and vodka laced vomit; holding your girlfriend’s underpants in one hand and a soggy garbage mish-mash in the other; taking a long, hot shower post-ten hour work night; drowning all remnants of you and this night.
I am a child—
revving my brother’s Tonka trucks in an endangered backyard sandbox; showing off to Mom with my round off triple-back handspring back tuck; cart wheeling madly through cold sprinkler water; existing simply and oblivious to bad people.
I am a child—
sprinting downhill down Fourth Ave, the street you’d one day stalk; stopping beside my barefoot dad in the brand new driveway; dropping to my kneecaps and pressing tiny hands into grey, wet gook; cringing all day long at the matter stuck fast to my fingernails.
I am a child—
heaving toys and small siblings into walls predestined to fall; learning about sharing, forgiving, and loving; watching my dad repair each basement cavity with a drywall patch, gritted teeth, bright red cheeks, and a slow, shaking head.
I am a child—
lying down with Daisy on the wood you’d one day waste; staring at the black and blue sky that stares down at you, a small man made smaller by the fireflies and falling stardust narrowing in on a big, resting rock.
I am a child—
being robbed of tranquility by you with your camcorder and a hateful looming tactlessness; fantasizing about vengeance; plotting your demise; wishing you impotence, torment, and grief.
I am a child and I am mourning the death of my childhood.
There once was a girl named Tiffany
Who seldom had any epiphany
Til while on her phone
She drove through orange cones
And realized at once her stupidity
Rhyming is hard! Avoiding florescent road hazards is not.
french toast politics—
forks linger, don’t commit, and
the last bite goes cold
roy trots to town
incites gunfire, thwarts sleep
leaves in dirty truck
controversial man
a red truck, a wire cage
cocknap caught on tape
screaming charging bird
an unlikely source of smiles
taken home too soon
