At paranoia's poison door.
When people say to spray for ants
I’d rather that they pray for ants
I think ants are really neat
So I kneel down and bless their feet
I tell the ants to bow their heads
And then my mom gives me my meds
They make the voices go away
Which tell me when I ought to pray
I sleep and dream of Lord Apshai
Who rules all ants from upon high
He then demands a sacrifice
I look around for something nice
And that’s why I burned all my pants
Burnt offerings to the god of the ants.
Amen.
When I was little, I’d try to spin high numbers in The Game Of Life.
Spin! Make the car go faster!
Graduate college!
Spin! Make the car go faster!
Get married!
Spin! Make the car go faster!
Have kids!
Make the car full of pegs go faster faster faster!
Rush headlong along the winding path!
Away we go!
And then…
The game’s over.
Wasn’t that fun?
Want to play again?
That Game Of Life, wherever it is, gathering dust… I learned one thing from it:
Spin low, take your time and enjoy the ride.
Make it last. Make it count.
All the world’s a stage
But unlike those women and men
Who are merely players
With their exits and entrances
We are the guys who run the box office
Selling tickets to people
Who have nothing better to do
Than watch the same old shit
Happen over and over and over
Sure, some do it better than others
The ushers come in and tell us
“Hey, this one dude, he’s good!”
We take turns, close a window
Watch for a while, get bored
And come back to the box office
Reopen the window, and ask
“How many for the show?”
The trouble with truffles
Is how much they cost
If the truffle is bad
Think how much you’ve lost
Dull aroma? Dull flavor?
Yes? And you simmered it right?
Then you must go to the store
And prepare for a fight!
The store owner laughs twice
“What are you, a dope?
It’s no truffle at all,
But a bar of black soap!”
“Then where is my truffle?”
Your blind rage is all spent.
Falling down to the floor
And then notice… your scent.
Back home in your shower
Sitting there in a tray
Is a decaying truffle
melting slowly away.
I came upon a grassy meadow
Massive human hands
Raising violin bows
Like magicians’ wands
Notes rose from the grass
Like dandelion seeds in the breeze
Rising… Rising…
Fading fading vanishing
I could not see any strings
The hands remained still
I heard music all around
A voice: “Music is the magic of life.”
I sat, watched, listened
I think of it again, and smile
The shadows grew long
I thought about heading back home
It’s still out there, that meadow
Where it is, I do not know
I’ve never come across it again
Closing my eyes, the magic returns
Ever been on a boat
Out on the water
Miles from shore
No maps
Waiting for the night
The sun goes down
Laying back, looking up
With just the stars
No waves
No noise
No light
Looking up at the stars
So many lights
So bright
So calm
Falling up
Into the midnight sky
You’re nowhere
You’re everywhere
Feeling nothing
No cold
No heat
No breeze
So peaceful
And then, a horn
What?
How?
Oh no
Falling from the sky, you rush to the engines
Start… start… start…
Will you get out of the way before that container ship hits?
Whuh, the God Of All Who Are Lost.
He has no priests, no followers, no temples.
Wander, traveler, and you are in the domain of Whuh.
The old bum, over there, under a crumpled, misfolded map as a paper hat, steering shopping cart full of broken GPS boxes, his chattering chorus of misdirection.
His eyes have seen many lands.
But he remembers none of them.
Do not ask him for directions.
Just walk. Walk in any direction.
You’ll find your way.
You’ll escape from the domain of Whuh.
The electronic chorus says TURN LEFT NOW.
The bum coughs and laughs.
When Bacon Man
Has no bacon
He grabs a bottle
Of bacon-flavored syrup
Made by Torani
The syrup experts
And with his
Mighty fist
Twists off the cap
While cursing the world
For the lack
Of real
God’s-honest bacon
Within reach
“Where is my bacon?”
Shouts Bacon Man
“What is Bacon Man
Without bacon?”
Nobody answers
He stares
Angrily
At the bottle
Raises it
To his lips
And drinks
It’s not bacon
But it’s bacon enough
For Bacon Man
He drinks
And drinks
And drinks
Until the bottle
Is empty
Bacon Man belches
Drops the bottle
And sits there
Scowling
Little Susie dreams little dreams of little things.
She’s starting to dream of bigger things.
Sadly, the bigger things don’t fit in her little dreams.
So, she’s trying to dream bigger dreams to fit them in.
Oh no! Those bigger dreams won’t fit in her tiny head!
“I need a bigger head for my dreams,” she said to her mother.
“Ask Santa for one.”
To make a short story shorter, yeah, Santa gave her one.
She’s the kid over there with the gigantic head, full of big dreams.
(Most of which involve being able to walk again without falling over.)
The world is my gym.
The sidewalk is my treadmill.
And the membership is free.
Sometimes, it’s raining.
Sometimes, it’s hot.
Sometimes, it’s cold.
Sometimes, it’s windy.
But, usually, it’s nice out.
The birds are singing.
I can’t hear them.
I have my headphones on.
A bird swoops past my head, flapping.
Defending its nest.
This happens every day.
I think about bringing a club.
Or a weighted sock.
To stun the aggressive avian.
What if I kill it?
Who would feed the baby birds?
I imagine myself, perched over featherless chicks.
Then vomiting into the nest
Where’s my ladder?