It’s Monday again.
Now Tuesday. Then Wednesday.
And Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday.
And it’s Monday again.
Over and over. And over.
Days, weeks, months, and years.
And years.
And then? What?
Retirement? A pat on the back for a job well done?
What then?
Golf? Shuffleboard? A garden?
Or just… nothing. No more?
And it’s Monday again.
Kids? Grandkids? And great grandkids?
Maybe they’ll name one after you?
And their kids will do the same for them?
Over and over, until you’re not even your own name anymore.
And it’s Monday again.
And it’s Monday again.
And it’s Monday again.
Tag: poetry
Time Melts Like Ice Cream
Time melts like ice cream.
Dripping all over.
What flavor is your time?
Strawberry?
Chocolate?
Vanilla?
Is your time in a dish? A waffle-cone?
Or one of those lame, bland sugar-cones?
Do you roll your time in sprinkles?
Some call them Jimmies.
Who’s Jimmy? Did he invent these, or did he roll himself in sprinkles?
Is your time real ice cream?
Or that soft-serve crap at Dairy Queen?
Soft-serve crap they dip in the chocolate that hardens.
Or roll in nuts.
If they’re really good, they can do both.
But that’s soft-serve crap.
Not time.
That melts.
Like ice cream.
Peaches
Peaches. Peaches.
Fucking peaches.
Motherfucking peaches.
Mother-fucking peaches.
Goddamned motherfucking peaches.
Goddamned, piece of shit, motherfucking peaches.
Goddamned, piece of shit, mother-fucking peaches.
Fucking peaches.
Mother-fucking peaches.
Goddamned, worthless, piece of shit, motherfucking peaches.
Goddamned, worthless, piece of shit, cocksucking motherfucking peaches.
Peaches. Peaches.
Fucking peaches.
Motherfucking peaches.
Mother-fucking peaches.
Shove them up your ass.
Shove them all up your ass.
All the goddamned, worthless, piece of shit, cocksucking motherfucking peaches.
Just shut the fuck up.
And take your
Goddamned, worthless, piece of shit, cocksucking motherfucking peaches
With you
Up your ass.
Up motherfucking ass.
Shoved up your motherfucking ass.
Rose
A rose by any other name would still be a rose
And a nose by any other name would still be a nose.
Your nose knows that a rose is a rose.
What about toes?
Your nose certainly knows toes.
What about bows?
What about clothes?
Would a hose by any other name still be a hose?
What about those?
It’s time that we chose.
How many yeses? How many nos?
If you ask a rose, as it sits there and grows, will it disclose?
How do we know that a rose knows that it knows?
Do I? I suppose.
Warm
Sometimes, when it’s cold and dark and rainy and windy, I like to put on shorts and a T-shirt and carry the trash out to the dumpster.
It’s a minute walk to the dumpster to drop off the trash, and then a minute back.
Just enough to feel the chill.
Then I slide open the patio door, walk inside, and slide it shut again.
It feels so good warming back up again.
I lay back on the sofa, and I pull the blankets back over me.
It feels even better, to be reminded how good it feels to feel warm.
Brace
I broke my elbow
One week in the hospital
One week rest
work release in hand
light duties only
welcome back
I sat down at my desk
A pillow to my left
To lay my braced left arm upon
And I wrote
And wrote
And wrote
after 7 hours work
I crawled home exhausted
took off the brace to
lay on my back on the sofa
arm on a pillow across my chest
slowly moving my wrist
and fingers
and i realized
this must be how it feels
after a long day
to take off your bra
and just breathe
Oh Mirror, Mirror
Mirror mirror on the wall
Who is the fairest one if all
And how much does she charge per night?
Mirror mirror laying flat on the table
One line for me
One line for her
Unless she’s not into cocaine
Then I’ll do both
Mirror mirror on the ceiling
Not bad for fifty-seven
If I can’t see myself up there
Then there’s always the videotape
Mirror mirror on the side of the cab
She gives me her card, smiles, and is gone
I toss it in the trash
Mirror mirror in the bathroom
Move aside, I need my pills
Now
130
When Shakespeare wrote that his mistress’ eyes were nothing like the sun, he had no idea that she had just inhaled particles from a passing comet and underwent ocular nuclear fusion.
Her eyes had become exactly like the sun: two miniature gaseous spheres of Hydrogen and Helium under intense pressure, temperature, and gravitational power.
She clutched her flaming head and screamed until collapsing into a pile of charred bone and ash.
Shakespeare thought about correcting his sonnet, but it was already at the printers.
“Oh well,” he muttered.
Then he picked up his pen and wrote “Thou art as tyrannous…”
Parallel Universe
In the parallel universe
Everyone is evil
And Spock has a beard
If Spock were a practical joker
He’d buy a false beard
And wear it every so often
So that when Kirk saw him
He’d think he was the Evil Spock
And then Spock would pull it off
And laugh.
But Spock is a Vulcan
Vulcans have no emotions
Or sense of humor
So the odds of Spock
Actually making a joke
Are incredibly small
Spock would say they are zero
But he knows the exact odds
To the fifteenth decimal place
Because he’s a scientist
And a nerd.
I don’t have a cat!
“I don’t have a cat!” I said to the cat on my lawn.
“I don’t have a cat!” I said to the cat on my porch.
“I don’t have a cat!” I said to the cat on my chair.
“I don’t have a cat!” I said to the cat on my kitchen floor.
“I don’t have a cat!” I said to the cat on my bed.
“I don’t have a cat!” I said to the cat on my lap.
The cat didn’t say anything back.
Except for a gentle, dismissive purr.
Then she closed her eyes and went to sleep.