evolution

A “NASCAR ALERT”.
Thanks for helping me to know
when to change channels.

Every English major
gets earth-tone clothing and
a free Leonard Cohen
CD when they sign up.

Me? I got eighteen grand.
And two office hours
a week. And a weekly
algebra seminar

over pints. Beat that with a
stick.

One cold winter’s night
I sat on a stone bench
that was like a slab
in a funeral parlor.

Which is rather funny,
because the bench was
next to old John Purdue,
who is dead.

I turned and asked him,
“Mr. Purdue, I’m lonely.
No one here loves me
and I don’t belong.”

Said John, “Shut the
hell up, willya?
It was quiet here
till you showed up.”

I said, “Goodnight, then,”
got up off my grave,
and left old Purdue to his.

five syllables, then
seven syllables, and then
five. Got it, numbnuts?

X: The 5A/B Line

Not much to go back to—
take me around again.

[This poem is part of a collection titled Smile Like You Mean It.]

IX: Happy Hollow

Every town should have a road called
Happy Hollow Road. It would be nice to
lose myself on this road the way I have
lost myself on all the others.

[The poem is part of a collection titled Smile Like You Mean It.]

In search of company

I would have bought her
a drink, but she could have been
Carrie Nation’s twin.

----------

Temperance

“Just as I was finished shaking your martini, the old broads from the Temperance Movement busted in. You spun around on your stool, holding your martini and a cigaret — complete with a hint of your fire-engine red lipstick — and sized those broads up, saying, ‘Honey, you need to live a little before your time is up.’

And then you grinned, and took a slow sip of your martini, swirling it in your mouth a bit before swallowing.

Then — right then — is when I—” [fin]

Horse Child -thighed Breakfast Upstairs Neighbor

Horse child -thighed breakfast upstairs neighbor,
what are you doing to me?
with your long blonde legs lard-laden footfalls?
with your long blonde face God-damned birdseed?
with your long blonde hair campy 80s music?
with your perfect blonde lipid-packed ass?

I swear I’ll never be the
same keep food down again!

Horse child -thighed breakfast upstairs neighbor,
what you’re doing to me
I want done forever is fucking pissing me off.

[Joke premise stolen from the closest thing I have to a blog-father.]

[This poem is part of a collection of original poetry called Smile Like You Mean It.]

VIII: Marsh

On a grey day in January
I trudged through two feet of snow
(and an inch of lethargy)
to my car,
started it,
and drove to Marsh.

There I bought:
a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon,
some frozen ravioli,
a cute blonde girlfriend,
fresh oregano and basil,
tomatoes,
a number-10 can of self-worth,
a wedge of Parmigiano-Reggiano,
a couple of candles,
a couple of wine glasses,
and some ambience from the bulk bins.
And a habanero pepper
for another purpose.

The cart with all that stuff in it
was my make-believe cart.

My actual cart contained
a pound of hamburger,
a can of chili beans
a six-pack of Samuel Adams Cream Stout
and that habanero that now
has more purpose than me.

[Author's historical note: This undated poem was written roughly one year ago, when I was working at the Kansas State Capitol. It was written during a break the proceedings of the House Health and Human Services committee. This poem and its three predecessors are about a pretty lobbyist who came to the hearings. I recently rediscovered it when I cleaned out my apartment.

I never did catch her name.]

Mr. Chairman,
a point of personal
privilege, if I may.

I would
like to take that
tall dark-haired girl out

to lunch.
All in favor signify
by saying “aye”.

[previously: 1 --- 2 --- 3]