I see him, wrestling through would-be Plaths, Frosts and Burkowskis at the coffeeshop:
It’s Open Mike Night, and, like a schoolchild, he’ll recite Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 from memory.
Dreadful.
From the stage’s barstool, he’s downright singsongy, ruining the verse, digging up Shakespeare’s grave, skullfucking the corpse…
Enough! I shout. I would rather be beaten across the face and chest with a volume of Shakespeare’s work than hear you open it and read from it!
The crowd is stunned. Shakespeare’s torturer stares blankly.
Reciting from memory, he has no volume to beat me with.
But he’s got the barstool.
I run.
Tag: second life
Lemons and Tomatoes
The optimist takes the lemons that life hands him to make lemonade.
But when the artist has tomatoes thrown at him for his art, there are so many more options.
There’s a rich tomato bisque on the back burner there.
Smell that. It’s good, yes?
I made a bottle of ketchup the other day that’s thicker and richer than any store-brand ketchup you can buy.
What else is there on my stove? Oh, that’s a spaghetti sauce.
Here. Taste it. Try it.
A little more salt?
Let me take some out of this wound they tried to rub it in.
The Girl With A Good Name
There once was a girl who had a good name.
Her mother and father thought long and hard to come up with it, and it was a very good name.
But it didn’t take long for her to wear that good name out.
So, she gave herself another name.
It wasn’t as good of a name, but it served her well.
Until she wore it out, too.
Name after name she took and wore out, until the pile of names grew so large, it’s shadow covered her in darkness.
Rotting underneath, her once-good name, completely buried, out of reach forever.
Three Little Virtual Pigs
Once upon a time there was a big bad wolf and three little pigs.
The wolf wanted to eat them.
The first little pig built his house out of Mesh, so the Big Bad Wolf logged in with Viewer 1.23 and it didn’t render. He ate the pig.
The second little pig built his house out of sculpties. The Big Bad Wolf checked… it was Phantom. He ate the pig.
The third little pig made his house out of prims. The Big Bad Wolf couldn’t enter it. So, he hit Auto-Return. And ate the pig.
Then he crashed.
The end.
The Sore
I don’t talk to you. You don’t talk to me.
What happened to us? We used to be so close.
Too close. All we did was annoy each other.
Forget the good times. Forget the laughs.
That was all bullshit, and we both know it.
You’re like an unexplained foul odor, left behind in a room.
A festering sore that I keep picking at?
Is that obsession? Or how deeply you annoyed me?
How long will this last?
Until the next one. The next person to get close.
Too close, and they leave without leaving.
Like an open, bleeding sore.
Shower Her Out
You washed her out of your hair and down the drain.
But she’s back.
And she’s wrapping herself around friend after friend, whispering in their ears.
Sweet nothings. Worth nothings.
Preying on their loneliness
and fear
and greed
and all the things in her that made you get out the wire brushes and the borax…
SCRUB SCRUB SCRUB!
Can’t they see the bullshit for themselves?
Can’t they hear the bullshit for themselves?
What the fuck is wrong with them?
No, it’s not you. It’s them. It’s all of them.
They’ll wake up.
They’ll figure her out.
They’ll see. Eventually. Eventually.
The Skye’s The Limit
He was a music prodigy. Played from the time he was three.
Guitar. Piano.
He could sing, too.
He loved to go out and perform, and folks said “You’re going places.”
It was a shame when he got sick and couldn’t gig anymore.
So, he played his music on the Internet.
Folks around the world got to enjoy him, and they posted YouTubes of his music, bringing in more fans.
When he got better and record labels came calling, he said “Thank you. I’ll never forget you.”
Neither did the lawyers, as the copyright takedown notices spread around the net.
Ode To A Troll
if i could press
a magical button
and wipe you
from existence
i’d press that button
but
i wouldn’t just press that button
i’d press that button
in style!
there would be a parade
with elephants
and horses
while marching bands played
girls in short skirts
twirling batons on fire
and old men in fezzes
what are they called?
shriners?
shriners!
went around
on those scooters.
and bringing up the rear
a massive cannon
that would fire me across
two football fields
my hand outstretched
smacking that button
and sending your
ugly
disgusting
evil
miserable
vile
obnoxious
ass
to
hell
Conference Call
Ten people in suits walked into a conference room, pulled laptop computers out of their leather satchels, booted them up, and started their virtual conference software.
On ten screens, digital dopplegangers of each attendee appeared, and they sat down on tree stumps around a virtual campfire.
The crackles and pops of the fire cycled for a minute before anyone spoke.
“Anything for the agenda?” one asked.
No response.
“Nothing at all?” they asked again.
Still no response.
“Good. Meeting adjourned.”
The figures vanished from the screens, the laptops were stowed back into their satchels, and the people left the room.
Plus
What’s all of this fuss
About Google Plus?
You’re suspended? You’re blocked?
Well, color me shocked!
Did you think for a minute
They’d let you stay in it?
The circles and streams
Fill up with your screams
Of protest and threat
They’re not listening, I bet.
If they took time to explain
We’re just a nuisance, a drain
We don’t buy all that stuff
The ads sell, so tough!
Facebook’s just the same
We don’t fit in their game.
When will Twitter become
Like these “real name” scum?
Well, you can all go to Hell
(Time to log into SL.)