New Years New

Another year gone
Another notch tighter on the belt
Or looser
Or maybe just the same

The bugs are in their rugs
Dogs under their logs
Bees in the knees
Everything in it's place

Whether this New Years finds you still above ground
Or below
Three cheers for you my friends
Good fortune follow wherever
And whenever you go

Strip Off Thy Cloak

Burn it all down
Does that make it all better?
Do the ashes soothe your wounds?
Wallowing around in your sorrows
Making all manner of piggy sounds

You greedy bitch
You think just because you made something
That it's yours
To kill or to fuck
As you wish?

Once it's out there
It's not your's anymore
In the scary wide open world
To be praised or spat upon

Sooner or later you'll find yourself
And all your wondrous cursed creations
At the center of a situation
That you did not
And could not
Predict

And all your hard won experience
Your wisdom and learning
Will be out the door
Down the toilet
And there you'll be
Stripped naked of everything

As awestruck and dumbfounded as all the rest of us

Mancunt

Mancunt is everywhere
His existence is rampant
Just hope for an uneventful day
And "POOF" he will be there

Mancunt is sly
He knows how to wait
To stalk his prey
Hovering just out of sight near some bait

What's that?
Hunting over a bait pile is unsportsmanlike?
Mancunt does not care
Certainly not with a freezerful of meat

Mancunt is outspoken
He will disagree with everything you say
Whether he agrees or not
That's just his mode of play

Oh sure, he'll tell you it's for fun
Playing devil's advocate is all sport
But to him it's so much more than a game
Telltaled by the vicious way he goes for blood

Mancunt has a sixth sense
He can tell when you'd rather be left alone
Which is exactly when he'll move in
To tell you all about his day

When you realize all your body language has failed
And you come right out and tell him to fuck off
He'll laugh and punch you in the arm
Offering you one of your own beers

Mancunt is not the ideal date
He will belch at a fancy dinner
Wipe his mouth on his sleeve
If he can even find it under his beard

After eating the most pungent foods imaginable
He will expect you to make out with him
Failing that he'll settle for a blowjob
Then be hurt and angry when you don't beg to suck his knob

Mancunt is a fine example of the species
He'll make a decent taxidermy mount someday
In the museum of awful people
With a lovely little plaque that reads

"Here we see a cunt of a man
May his kind never breed"

Mutant Mice of Area G

Round sound
Crunching and grinding
Flaying unwinding
Ever further into town
Ever closer to our compound

The watch gathered on the wall
Closest to the approaching threat
Wondering how close it would get
Sometimes it stayed away
Other times making a low pass

This time it did roll into sight
Twenty feet in diameter
Roughly five feet wide at the wheel
A rolling tire advertisement
Made of titanium and steel

The outer band was the only part that turned
With grinders and cutters all over
Sending up a spray of whatever it churned
Swallowing up about half of it
Some to be stored and taken away
The rest into the firebox and burned

Little windows and access hatches
Dotted the solid wheel center
It's where the steam engine lived
Along with the little engineers
Who were the embodiment
Of our genetically engineered fears

Hyper intelligent rodents
Of sadly very usual size
Sat rolling dirty
In this terrifying ride
Their little furry arms sitting on the window sills
Staring out at the destruction
With mad staring eyes
Fueled by pharmaceutical pills

If they wanted to
They could destroy us
Here in our little bastion of frail humanity
But they didn't today
Which should be reason to rejoice
But I don't

For it isn't that they are out to eradicate us
No
It's the simple fact that we are now so far beneath them
That they don't even care

A Living Kama Sutra - pt 3

A quiet bell sounded
All the small talk ceased
Sounds could be heard from inside the box
Whispers and a few soft bumps

The light came on behind the curtain
The lights in the outside room dimmed
The black velvet curtain was framed by the white light
I held my breath
Took one last look at my program

"Red group, session one:
Congress of a Crow"

The curtain parted quietly
Revealing a man and a woman
Standing nude in frozen pose facing the audience
Both were beautiful

For a few seconds they stood there
Audience and performer regarding each other

Then they turned to face one another
And in slow artful movements
Came together in an embrace
Caressing one another gently
Kissing each other quietly with passion

I could see the man's cock getting hard
And I blushed in the dimness
I could feel myself get wet
And decided I wish I'd have worn my panties after all
With a frown I realized I'd leave a spot on my skirt

With a quick side look to see if anyone was looking
I tugged my skirt up in the back
Planting my bare bottom on the vinyl seat

At least I wouldn't have to worry about that

In front of me
The show continued

The man kissed and bit the woman's breasts

The woman reached down and rubbed the man's cock

Going to their knees as one
They moved their upper bodies in opposite arcs
Ending up head to foot with each other
Though more like head to sex
So to speak

The woman took the man's cock in her mouth
Performing several different techniques upon it

I felt myself torn between watching her
And watching him
As he kissed licked and sucked on her pussy

I felt slightly faint
As I watched
Trying to soak it all in
Trying to remember what she did to him
Trying to remember what he did to her

Never having done anything like that myself
Hoping to understand how it all worked
Seeing how beautiful it really was
Subtly craning my neck to try to see more of what was in front of me

All too soon
The lights in the box went out
The black curtain closed
The lights in the room came back up for us

I looked around
Feeling oddly triumphant
Almost giddy with happiness

Most of my group shared my feelings obviously
A few looked a little embarrassed still
One was staring at the floor
Seemingly overwhelmed by it all

I turned to the woman next to me
Who could have been my mother
If my mother was cool
And smiled
She smiled back

I asked her about something I'd seen
And she started telling me about something similar she had done
My mental notebook was going crazy trying to keep up
Images and words flooding my imagination
Her hand grasping mine as we sat and talked about it

Most everyone around us chatting as well

A voice interrupted us briefly

"Please move as a group to your next station
Follow the floor arrows
The next session begins in ten minutes"

I consciously stood up last
And waited until everyone else had just turned their backs

Looking down quickly
I saw the little puddle I'd made on the seat
And giggled at the thought of the next person coming along
But then not feeling so bad
As I saw a few of the other chairs weren't dry anymore either

I caught up to my new friend
And we talked as we walked around the corner to the next station
Discussing the protestors outside the art museum
So insistent that this was pornography

I confessed to her that this was already
A far better education than I'd ever had in health class
She laughed and agreed readily

A quiet bell sounded
Marking one minute till session two

I bit my lip and looked at my program

"Red group, session two:
Biting"

I sat down
A little less self consciously arranging my skirt this time
And thought to myself
This was by far the best skip day ever

A Living Kama Sutra - pt 2

Pulling into the museum parking lot
I saw several things

My hair
Blowing in the wind from my rolled down windows
Only minutes before
Was now a fright wig

A line of people waiting to get inside
With all kinds of faces
Some indifferent too cool for school
Others excited
Some bored looking

A small group of protestors
Holding signs and chanting

"No public pornography!"

The signs saying much the same
In several different ways
With many different fonts
Ranging from professional
To looking like a first grader had painted it

I busied myself pulling the hair back into a ponytail
Wiped off my glasses
Put a little lipstick on in the mirror
Smacking my lips softly in appreciation
For how decent I looked today

Damn if I couldn't pass for a college girl

Passing a few minutes listening to music
I watched as the doors opened at eleven sharp
And the line of people started to file in
I shrewdly tried to calculate the distance to the doors
And the time it would take me to walk there

When it seemed right
I hopped out of the car
And walked quickly to the building
My invite in my hot little hands

I gave the protestors the finger on my way by
To which one said

"I'll pray for you sister!"

Rolling my eyes I continued on
Reaching the door just as the last person in front of me went in
I offered my invite to the man in the suit

"Welcome to the Living Kama Sutra...."
He said, and looked down at the paper
"..Susan"

"Follow the markings on the floor that are red"
At that he gave me a little red pinback button
"Put that on, and follow the red arrows
You'll find everyone else in your group at the first box
It's five minutes until the first session
Here's your program"

I smiled and pinned the button to my shirt
Walking past him
I felt the teensiest bit aroused
Not by him
But by glancing at my program
And breathlessly following my little red arrows

I found my group sitting in front of a large black box protruding from the wall
The box was about a seven foot cube backed up to the wall
There was a black curtain across the open end facing us
I sat down next to my companions
All mostly looking at their programs
Their watches
Or staring at the curtain

Some were a little pink
With embarrassment
With anticipation
Maybe both

The program stated

"At one minute to the start of a session
A small bell will be heard
Ten seconds before
A light will come on in the box stage
Then the curtain will raise
The performance will last ten minutes
At the end of which
The light will go out
The curtain will close

We ask that you respect our artist performers
And please be quiet
Do not distract them

Your experience as well as theirs
Will be enriched"

I couldn't wait
I felt myself getting flushed
My right hand gripping my skirt tightly
Absentmindedly

A Living Kama Sutra -pt 1

Today is the day
I'm flushed with excitement as I sneak out after second period
Running crouching and sidestepping
Generally acting like a B movie ninja
And probably an inept one at that

Nobody had seen me as I made my way to my car
Which was strategically parked just out of sight
In the far corner of the parking lot
Where if I drove across the grass to the road
No one in the school would see me go

I hopped in the car
With a most unladylike hitch of my skirt
Which my mom had made me wear

She really pissed me off
So to even the scales
I'd not worn any panties
Just to flip her off

I started the old Rabbit
And checked my purse one last time
Seeing and touching my invitation there
Which I'd gotten by telling only the whitest of lies

"By requesting this invite
You say that you are 18 years old
No minors allowed"

Pfft, so I lied
I'll be eighteen in three months

Slapping the gearshift into first
I momentarily swore at Cindy
Who was supposed to have come with me

I slid the clutch out and quietly pulled away
Across the grass
Onto the road
And onward to the city
Alcona High School growing distant in my mirrors

Fuck this place
I can't wait to move somewhere real

As I drove
I made notations in my head
Of things I wanted to write about
Or mental doodles
Of things I wanted to draw and paint
It always seemed as though
The best ideas came to me
While I was zoning out in the car
My favorite music swirling around me
As I hunkered down in the old bucket seat
Radio turned up to drown out the car sounds

Toys Are Meant To Be Played With

Toys are meant to be played with

Not to be left in their box

Collected for years

By reverent hands

Until the toys within 

Are reduced to tears

With no one to play with

Mint in the box

Doesn't mean a thing

To an electric train and it's rolling stock

Built thirty years ago by Lionel

Shipped to a strip mall hobby shop

Put in the back room and forgot

Only to be found again

Two and a half decades later

To the delight of the purveyors

Of things still mint in their box

Inside a veritable nesting doll set of boxes

Outside is the shipping box

With the red Lionel logos

A stock number telling it's set secrets

About the contents unseen within

But only to those in the know

Who have the sheet to decipher this code

Next are the individual brown boxes

Seven of them to be exact

With more red Lionel logos

The same stock number

With added dash numbers

To differentiate the pieces

Still nothing to see except box stock brown

Now come the interesting boxes

The ones that we see on the shelves

In the old Lionel orange and white

A large cellophane window in the front

To finally show off what you get for your money

A tease for the masses and their cash

Waiting inside these

Now three layers deep

Is the Lionel Chicago and Alton locomotive

Number Six-Fifty-Nine

In it's regal burgundy and silver

With six matching passenger cars

Baggage and combo

Two coaches

One dining and at last the observation

All this toy

Awaiting small hands for so long

So I hope my father approved

Though he is seven years gone now

When I came down to his old train room

To find an open empty Lionel shipping box

Seven smaller brown empties

Along with opened display boxes

And a burgundy and silver passenger train

Running merrily around the tracks

With my son at the controls

He did always say

"Toys are meant to be played with"

The Color Truck

It was a truck of color
Of reds
Oranges
Yellows
Greens
Blues
Violets
Of and including Black
Which is argued to be no color at all

It wasn't allowed in the white vehicles parking lot
Nor the reds
Oranges
Yellows
Greens
Blues
Violets
Though it was allowed to park in the black lot
But on the fringes
For although the black vehicles
Who were no recognized color at all
Were amused by the colored trucks many colors
It wasn't enough to warrant a decent spot

When filling out questionares
And information was required
For scholarships to Auto University
Or for a job at the Lube Lounge
There was always a square labeled "Color"
And colored truck always answered as "Truck"

"That's not a color
That's what you are
What color are you?"
All the arbitrary authority figures would ask

"I am the color 'truck'"
Was the only answer it would give

Notes would always be taken
On 3x5 cards
And neatly lined yellow pads of varying sizes and thicknesses
All saying basically the same thing

"Troublemaker"
"Malcontent"
"Suspicious"
"Hippy"

Color truck never got any scholarships
Or decent jobs
It works for cash on odd jobs both big and small
Cruises looking for love in the bad part of town
As that's the only part of town that it is allowed

It's not easy being the color truck
Not one color but many
Till they all bleed together
Into an utter absence of color altogether

In the Company of a Santa of Indeterminate Origin and Authenticity

A long cold night trudging along the side of the road
One thumb that is practically sprained
From the repeated flexing hitchhiker's pose
Vogueing that way for cars that never stopped
They just kept on truckin'
Which was not the classic pose I was going for

All of which finds me here
On a soft tuck and rolled seat
In the company of a Santa Claus
Of indeterminate origins and authenticity

It wasn't his odor that gave me pause
It wasn't as if he smelled of beef and cheese
Or booze and pastys
He smelled perfectly normal for a Santa Claus

A pleasant old man smell wafting off of him
A touch of pipe tobacco and sawdust
Along with peppermint
From the candies he always seemed to have in his mouth
All in all a pretty pleasant smell

It wasn't his looks either
He had the Beard
Perfectly trimmed and clean
Rosy cheeks with a pert little nose
A merry twinkle to his eye
Topped with the loveliest Santa hat you ever saw
Clearly trimmed in real fur
Matching the rest of his outfit
Down to his polished black boots with silver buckles

So it wasn't all that
That all seemed legit

I think it was about the seventeenth stop we made
Back about two hours ago I think
Though time is a funny thing when in the company of a Santa

The sleigh with it's team of reindeer landed lightly
Once again the perfect size to fit upon the roof
Whether the roof was long or short
Wide or narrow
The rig always fit just right

I can accept that
I really can!
Santa is supposed to be magic dangit

No
It was what happened after we landed
After he grabbed his sack
Which always stayed a constant size
No matter what went into or out of it
A perfect ratio
For that perfect Santa silhouette

Like the previous sixteen times
He climbed atop the chimney that wasn't there a minute before
And jumped into it
Sliding out of sight without a sound
The flue of the chimney interfering with the sides of his body by quite a bit
If it was a video game
I'd call it a major glitch
But as it was I can't explain it

Imagine a thin thing
Going down a small tube
But with a wider image superimposed over it
That's what it looked like

But that wasn't what gave me pause either
Magic, remember?

It was after he popped back up the chimney
This time with a little blood upon his chest
Staining the delicate fibers of fur trim on his coat
Seeing my gaze
He paused and took out a hankie
Wiping it gently across the stains
Removing all traces of them in an instant

With a devilish Santa grin
He rejoins me in the sleigh
Cracking the reins
Calling out to all the reindeer
Just like in the movies

But this time
Right before he gets to "Blitzen!"
He coughs hard
Something flying out of his mouth
To strike the inside front of the sleigh with a metallic coin clink
Coming to a rest by my feet

He watches me as I bend to grab it
Raising it to my eyes
I see that it is a pet ID tag
It says 'Mister Bumpkins' on it
Along with a phone number

I look at Santa
Who holds out his hand
Expecting me to give it to him
Which I do

Santa slips it into the pocket of his coat without a word
Before tilting his head back slightly
And calling out his iconic phrase

"Merry Chistmas to all! And to all........"

I think I should be a little worried

In the Company of Instagram

"Click!"

"For the love of Job!
Would you stop taking pictures of your food?"

But the photo really pops
What with infinite filters and crops
Add some fancy borders
And some imaginary F-stops

Suddenly every twelve year old is a photographer
And every hipster is green with envy
Their carefully hoarded collection of vintage gear
Made instantly even more obsolete
By the App of the year

Well at least that's how it thinks of itself
Which is fine I guess
A belief in one's self
Is a cornerstone of a healthy mental mess

I've even seen it on Instagram's Instagram
Some self promoting platitude
Inserted un-self conciously into a template
Touted endlessly as the newest meme

Which it is
For all ten people who share it

I tried ignoring Instagram
But it cropped up in the headlines every other day
Making me wonder what I was missing
That if I'm not on it, whatever will people say?

So I'm on it
I'm in it
I'm through it
And it's pretty much into me
As I'm trying to collect enough photos
For one of those nifty collages
That you can buy for a small fee
From a numerity of vendors in their virtual garages

But now my companion is pissing in the pool
Supposedly selling my photos
Playing me for a fool
There's no way my former friend Facebook
Would do such a thing!

Would it?

This all makes me want to rejoin the company of tumblr
Do some cutting
Take some pics of it
Tell the world I can't take it anymore

Until Instagram comes to save me once again
Like a stalwart friend
Pumping my stomach for photos
To fill it's servers to brimming
With all the content they can hold

Which I'll be fine with in the end
Because who doesn't love old Lunch
The friendly mooch who always wants what you are having

"You're not going to eat all that, right?"

Oh Instagram
You old scamp

In the Company of Bastards

I was in the company of bastards
They stretched as far as I could see
A seething sea of people
All with one thing in common with me

We were all bastards

Not one of us knowing our father
Not one of us knowing the other
All surly smelly in need of a shower
A few of them wishing for their mother

The thing about this bunch of bastards
Was that they weren't just that in the literal sense
They were bastards through and through
Carrying a bastardly attitude wherever they went

One group playing cards
To constant calls of "Cheat!!!  Fraud!!"
Another group telling lies to one another
Playing trust fall without any trust
Then some really untrustworthy bastards over there
Treating some other bastard's wife with nothing but lust

This might be some storied group
Sailing a pirate ship at sea
With the captain as the biggest bastard of all
With each one of us bastards thinking "Well hell, that'd be ME!"

But it's not
And never will be romanticized
Except by certain men and women who are attracted to such ilk
This group of bastards will be it's own undoing
With such a feeling of self bastard loathing inside
That it may very well reach back through the fabric of time
And be the very first case of mass self infanticide

I can't stand these bastards
Most of all
Myself

Culinary Competition

It was a mountain
Of seven inch
Pink firm and warm
Nestled in soft warm buns

Hot dogs

I grabbed the ketchup
Gave it a squeeze
Raining red paste down
Confident I could eat it all
With lazy ease

This has been a long process
I think I'm almost ready
Nationals are only two weeks away
And I have more working out to do

One hand on a hot dog
The other on a stopwatch
I click the start button

Into the trough of water goes the hot dog and bun
Open goes the mouth
Gape goes the throat
In goes the hotdog
I chew as it slips inside
One, two, three, four

Which
If you're keeping track
Divided my hotdog plus bun plus ketchup
Into five equal parts
Which tumble down my throat
Like refuse down a hi rise garbage chute

Splashing down into my stomach
Stretched out like a gonzo porn star's bumbershoot

I repeat the process
One after the other
Until the plate is empty
And then my mouth

I click the button
I look at the clock
One minute fifty six
I have to do it faster!
I think to myself as I eat a couple cool down hot dogs

These I've dressed to the nines
With mustard added to the ketchup
Onions, relish, and a bit of chili
It helps me settle my stomach
And stretch it just a little bit more

I can use all the edge I can get

Numismatic Disagreement

There is no sense
Residing within the cents
That clink around my pockets
Though their collective heads
Might be old and wise
When I give up asking them the hard questions
I sense that they feel in relief

A low to mid relief to be exact

Though I always correct them
And tell them that they are simply stamped
Their lack of sense of any kind
Causes them to call me mentally bankrupt
Which is funny because I think they spend just fine

Hey you! Porkchop! C'mere!

You, look good enough to eat, my friend
And I actually don't mean anything figurative
I mean that you look like food

A walking talking red licorice vine man
That's what I see when I look at you
The kind with the ridges
Because that's what I prefer

Never, ever, the smooth ones
Those are for barbarians
Whereas the Twizzler kind
That's for swanky sophisticates like me

Keep on walking red vine guy
I love to watch you come and go
Just step up the pace a bit
Or I may have to take you down and have a taste

Oh, but now comes something more substantial
A mashed potato woman
With ribeye steaks for legs
Buttered pea pods for arms
And a roasted carrot as a head

I can't stop drooling
I must look quite the creep
Staring like a starving man
Drool running down my chin
Over the sight of this poor woman

I couldn't tell you what she really looked like
Her race, color, or creed
All that I'm able to see
Is that she is mighty tasty and fills my need

"Get in my belly!"
I shout at the woman meal
Who scurries away on her meat legs
Looking back with concern
In her cooked carrot face

I miss more meals that way

Sandy Hook Superman

Huddle together children
Just like I taught
Girls in the center
Boys grasping arms without
I shall stand superman
Hands upon hips
Deflecting the bullets
No screams from my lips

That's the fantasy
To protect like a superhero
But there aren't enough to go around
They can't be everywhere
To leap at every evil sound

I'd clone every hero
So that every child had a guardian angel
A Superman of their very own
To guide their choices
Helping them chose well
And stand between them and danger
When everything goes to hell

Or learn to fly around the earth backwards
That one trick Superman did
To stop the badness before it happens
Grab all the bad things
Keeping them away from kids
An angel minus the wings

One hears the news of today
Causing heroic scene after scene to play out
Only inside the head
Because the body is so far from where it could help
It ends in frustration and tears
Usually in private
Then time to move on

Time to argue on social media
Over how it could have been stopped
Ending in comment gridlock
Impossible to navigate coherently
Without anger or sadness

All we really need
Is the person standing Superman
Bulletproof and wise
Protecting that which we love
No challenge to which he can't rise

Until that fine day comes
I'll be doing what I can
Working gently with my hands
Carving stone lambs for their graves

Potato Potato

My Harley doesn't potato anymore
Instead of saying
"Poe-tay-toh Poe-tay-toh"
It seems to be saying
"Poe-tah-toh Poe-tah-toh"

I know it sounds strange for me to say
But it sounds foreign to my ears
An unknown in my garage and between my legs
A creeping addition to my existing fears

Did Christine sound different than other 1958 Plymouth Furys?
Was the demon that lived inside her
Prone to revealing his existence
Through silly little things like an exhaust note?

I've found myself cruising other kinds of bikes
The domestic Indians and Polaris
Even some imports from Japan and Europe
And I think my motorcycle suspects

When it thinks I'm going shopping
It often refuses to start
For absolutely no reason
I could run the battery down trying without so much as a fart

Last week when I was lubing the chain
Set firmly upon my motorcycle jack
For no reason I could see
It tipped over onto my back

And as I lay there with a footpeg drilling into me
I shifted a little so that it wasn't so firmly upon my kidney
I heard a whisper
Right in my ear
It distinctly said

"Keep me around
Or you'll not live out the year"

So I've cleaned up my act
And decided that the thing must have always sounded like it does
I burned all my bike brochures
Around new bike dealers I take wide detours

My Harley starts on the first try nowadays
It seems satisfied with my attitude
So for now it seems that I am safe
At least until the new bikes come out next year

Mall Santa

I went to the mall
And what did my wondering eyes see
But a very angry Santa
With piss stains upon his knee

I sat down nearby
And offered to freshen his coffee
He just scowled and growled
As he tried to clean his beard of dried toffee

I kind of regretted sitting so close
As his odor soon wafted on my way
Smelling a bit like pee and adult B.O.
I kind of felt that there was something I should say

"Um, Santa?
I mean, it's none of my business but....."

And he cut me off
Laying out a tirade ten miles long
Which should have landed him on the naughty list
And I doubt I'm wrong

"The kids right?
It's all about the kids
But what they don't tell you
Is that they smell bad
And they whine
And some of them are terrified of you
And that they'll pee on you
All over your rented outfit
Which you have to have dry clean only
Or you lose your hundred dollar deposit
They pull your beard
They ask for everything in the toy store
And sometimes
Sometimes
They try to break your heart
By asking for their dead father or mother to come back
And you should be sad about that
Or something
But you can't
Because all the other kids have ruined you for it
Made you smell like piss and candy
And you just want to murder them all!!!"

My mouth was wide open
I couldn't believe what I was hearing
This was the life of a mall Santa?
I'd always imagined it a little more endearing

And I said so
At which, Santa dumped his cold coffee over my head
Leaving me sitting there dripping on the tiles
As he stomped off
In his shiny rented size twelve boots
With the shiny buckles
That were at least one size too big

Gingerbread Man

A gingerbread man's work is never done
Or so it seems
As gingerbread hands grasp gumdrops
Their rough sugary skins held tightly
Being forced down into gumdrop shaped sockets in the snow frosting
With just a dab of fresh goopy sugar to help cement it down

At least until the next kid comes along and pops it loose again

Which wouldn't be so bad if they actually ate them
After all, that's what a gingerbread house
And it's associated items
Are for

For some reason gumdrops are out of favor
At that, the gingerbread man giggles to himself
Little white frost outlined mouth in a single crooked line
As he tries to keep his mirth inside
"Out of flavor......" runs through his little ginger brain

Even a gingerbread man makes the occasional pun

Mother comes downstairs
Making the gingerbread man freeze in place
As those are the rules
Same as the Toy Story world
Or maybe the Toy Story world's rules are the same as gingerbread man's
Who can say which came first?

Mother is cradling her back with an awkwardly placed hand
Her pregnant belly thrust out in front
A craving look in her eyes

Gingerbread man gets a bit nervous at that
Because grown ups have a taste for ginger
At least in this household
Several ginger shingles have already had to have been fixed this week
Thanks to late night 'drive by' binges by the Mother

But that wasn't her objective tonight
She passed on by the small side table in the dining room
Going straight to the kitchen
Gingerbread man could hear the fridge door open
He could hear Mother rummaging in the contents
Finding her treat of the evening

Gingerbread man quickly finished with his gumdrop
Making his way quickly back to the house
But he was frozen once again in mid motion
As Mother appeared in the doorway once again
A pickle in one hand
Still dripping it's briny fluid onto the linoleum
Her eyes locked upon the gingerbread man
Caught out in the open
On the gumdrop lined walkway up to the little frosted gingerbread house

His odd position seemed to make him shiny to the Mother
And still holding the wet pickle in her left hand
She reached out with her right
Covering the three steps to the side table in a heartbeat

Gingerbread man screamed silently on the inside as she picked him up
Thinking to himself that if this was it
At least it will be over quickly

He was wrong though

Mother held him firmly by the chest
Her hungry eyes upon him
Looking at every white frosted line on his gingerbread body
Her red rubbery lips opened
And Mother ate one of gingerbread man's feet

Gingerbread man's eyes opened into twin "O"s
Almost as big as the circle his mouth now made
Surprise and pain writ large all over his gingerness

Mother chewed quickly
Taking the other foot off in a tearing motion

Gingerbread man forgot all about the rules
Forget the rules!
Gingerbread man cried out in pain and frustration

"Ooooooh, the Christmas Horror!!!
The ginger humanity....!"

Mother seemingly didn't hear his sweet shrill little screams
Taking two more bites
Completely removing his gingerbread legs
Before remembering the wet shiny pickle in her other hand
And the fact that the children would be upset that she had eaten part of the gingerbread man

Mother guiltily hid the gingerbread man half under a candy bush in front of the gingerbread house
Half hoping nobody would notice for a few days
Then forgetting all about it
As she munched her hungry hungry Mother way through the large dill pickle
Chewing and humming softly as she made her way back up the stairs
Rubbing her pregnant belly with one hand

Gingerbread man wept sugar water tears
Dragging himself with his little gingerbread arms towards the front door of his house
Knocking candy decorations off their little settings
Not caring

Leaving a light trail of crumbs behind him
Little flecks of ginger color
On the white expanse of white sugar snow

Keep Off The Railing Please

Your puny yellow safety rails cannot keep ME safe!
I'll hulk my way through them in a flash
Vault over them like an olympian
Slither through those gaps like a ninja

OSHA may approve
But you can't save the outrageously unsafe
From you
From itself
From anything at all

With a mighty "Hey, watch this!"
I'll balance on that top rail
Painted so bright yellow and shiny
Maybe dance a little bit
Till I do the splits
Bringing all my weight down on my balls and hiny

Making me an internet superstar
Which hopefully pays pretty well
As I'll lose my job after it's posted
Preserved forever in archived electrons
Upon whatever site that it is hosted

What a rich man I'll be
When I go down to the currency exchange
With my two million YouTube views in hand
Ready to swap them for dollars
And give my finger to the man

But lets rewind a bit shall we?
And show what should have been done
In order to keep both our balls in working order

A sign should be placed just so
Showing a stick figure getting racked up in the junk
Bolts of cartoon pain emanating forth
Soiling himself with bloody spermless spunk

Not enough you say?
Well have I got a deal for you!
I'll electrify that yellow protective railing
Thus keeping unruly "Look at me!" workers where they belong
Just like a herd of cows on a farm
Though the cows are often smarter
A few gigawatts or three
Should do the job quite nicely

All the workers in a line
Filing slowly to their job
No excessive horseplay on the equipment
And certainly no imaginary exchange of internet fame for money

He did! He did!

Who put the Christ in Christmas

HE did! He did!

Who put the Car in Cartoons

Well, actually it might have been

Walt Disney, or Hanna Barbara

I don't know

Who put the Christ in Christmas

HE did!  HE did!

Who put the presents under that tree?

Your parents, or Santa, or the Underwear Gnomes

Who can say!

Who put the Holy in that Ghost

HE did!  HE did!

Who's the ghost with the most

I recollect it was Beetlejuice

Spelled Betelgeuse

And if you're a nerd it's Alpha Orionis

For the record the exact quote was

"I'm the ghostest, with the mostest!

Oh who put the Santa in the Clause

HE did!  HE did!

Though to be fair he was born Kris Kringle

Which is a dingle of a name to have

Perhaps Santa Clause was just a name change

Fifty bucks well spent to save his sanity

Who employs the elves

HE did!  HE did!

Still does actually

If 'employ' is the right word to use

They sort of work without a contract

For no visible wages

Not counting room and board

In a remote outpost

From which there is no hope of escape

Who put the New in the Year?

HE did! HE .......

Y'know what?

I'm just going to quit right here

Free Online Dating

I'm awkward around girls

I can admit that

This is the 2010's now

And being a nerd is quite hip

When it comes to meeting chicks

In this tiny village I call a hometown

Tech savvy potential mates are one in a million

And what with a population of only 1200

The probability only goes down

Google being my friend

Showing me the world I know

With but a keystroke or two

Is naturally the first place I go

First I tried "Online Dating"

Which got me all the regular sites

A Wikipedia entry which was most informative

Followed closely by 

Ok Cupid

Plenty of Fish

And the old standby of eHarmony

One thing was a constant though

I could browse lightly all that I wanted

But to get to the gist of a girl

A credit card was required

Of those I tend to have plenty

One of my own

And an extra list of about twenty

From a Russian database that I hacked

But I'm cheap

Even when it's someone else's money

So I added "Free" to my query

And as soon as I went to them

I was blown away by what I saw

There were the usual suspects

Some widows and divorcees wearing only a bra

But thrown in to the mix

Were some true beauties

Looks that I couldn't scarcely believe

Which made me suspicious
Being burned so many times
Makes me harder to deceive

I texted a couple of the best looking ones

Who specifically stated clearly

That they were looking for 'The One'

I assumed that meant a magnificent self made man like me

Soon the replies came

First tentative

In broken English

Which broke out into long cut and paste paragraphs

At least I assume nobody can type that fast

Saying pretty much the same thing:

"I'm a beautiful girls looking for your sex

Before I can meet you I have to set some things out

I hope it does not deter you

But my father was a millionaire

And I have some strange inheritance clauses

Before I can get the money

I have to marry and take care of certain things

If you could help appreciated it would be"

It seems that you get what you pay for
When trolling for women in the 411 area

Big Water

BIG WATER
The sign to the rental cottages said
Promising sun, surf, sand
As well as a soft clean bed

I was skeptical it's true
Investigate the claims I did
While the clean bed is debatable
The big water is just as they said

Standing upon the coarse tan sand
Which trailed off into surf softened stones
Of every size shape and hue
The surf pounded a rhythm I felt in my bones

I was not deterred by this
Hitching up my horribly ugly floral patterned shorts
I waded on into the white foamed water
Only to get pounded back down to the rounded stones
Which were not as soft as their appearance would bely
Quickly pulling back up those same ugly floral patterned shorts
Which had been yanked by the water down to my thigh

This required some more thought
An answer provided by a nearby dock
And out onto this rickety construction I went
Out past the harsh surf
Now over top of the darker waves beneath
I plugged my nose and took the plunge
Thinking to myself
How deep could this Big Water be?

Beneath the sun sparkled waves
Sunlight rippling down
I dove towards the bottom of this Big Water
Swimming down as steep as I could
My ears started popping
The sunlight started dimming
It felt like my face was about to explode

I had to give up
With an explosive expletive heard nowhere
Accompanying me to the surface
Both bubbles and I arrived gasping to the air
Now surrounded by Big Water
As advertised upon the cottage rental sign
I was done and spent
But the undertow had dragged me out
That's when I realized just how big this Big Water was

It's been four hours
One hitched jet-ski ride
A warm bath with a good massage
And I've come to some conclusion on the Big Water matter

When confronted by something called Big Water
And being Swallowed by the big water sea
I much prefer the Little Water mixed with whiskey in this crystal glass
All the better to toss back my head and put it into me

Watery Mystery

Who really knows where the wastewater flows?
Not my son
Who periodically sends out little scouts
To look around and report back
From that no man's land that they never return

Countless green army men
Have braced the mystery in it's den
Only to be swirled away
Never to be seen by the light of day

A dinosaur came back once
But to be fair he hadn't gotten far
His long plastic neck was just too much
For the curly Q bend
That lives in the base of the stool

Rescued with mechanical fingers
Draped with wet paper
That was, shall we say, no longer clean
He eagerly reported the part that he had seen

Which as I mentioned
Wasn't very much
Mostly tales of white porcelain
Dirty water whirlpools and such

I know at least three brown plastic army radio men went in
Gung ho and full of fury
Only to disappear into the void
As I knew they would surely

My son isn't deterred
Even though I told him that it all ended in a dark septic tank
Living out in the backyard
It's outline clearly visible in the light snow
As that's the only part of the yard that is melted

"Fantastic Voyage" was just on TNT the other day
Now my son is convinced that there is another way
Whereas the army men had all been inert plastic
He himself had no such limitation

He's researching lasers and quantum physics
And it's not that I'm afraid he'll succeed
I'm just afraid that if he does
He'll only be disappointed
And that the reality of the dark stinky septic won't be what he needs

And hundreds of small plastic green army men
Floating in the dimness
Awaiting his orders
Like good soldiers should

Asbestos Humor

Why hello there Mister Asbestos Brake Pads
Will you be giving me cancer a-today?

"You slight me sir!
I am simply the gift that just keeps giving"

And of course he is correct
He is simply doing asbestos he can

Cancer humor

Fun

#TreeTuesday

This #TreeTuesday
I confess that I saw a bunch of trees
I wasn't true to any one at all
Variety was my slutty downfall

In the morning I sidled up to a tall lanky white pine
With some sap seeping through it's bark here and there
Sultry knots in the strong trunk
And a soft bed of needles on the ground everywhere

By brunchtime I turned my jaundiced eye to an ash
Woodpecker riddled and on it's last legs
I felt pity for it in my heart
I hugged it and told it all was ok
Though I have a tree trimmer scheduled in the very next day

For my dignified formal lunch
I made the acquaintance of an oak
Standing tall next to my house
I felt it best to be a gracious host
For it's close proximity
Meant that it could drop a thing or three
And cause some problems this winter in a pinch

Teatime came and went without a speck of tea
My attention taken up by the sexiest of birch trees
Encroaching upon my driveway
With pale bark and battle scars to prove
That it is a staunch resident and quite hard to move

Now here at suppertime
I am sharing a decent young wine
With a maple tree of fine vintage
Sixty feet tall at least
It's sweet sap a boiled down happy feast
Of sugar for my sweet tooth
And I love it so

I've seen trees before them
And I'll see many after
I don't even keep track of them really
Just today on #TreeTuesday
Have I realized how many branches
I've bounced to and from
More than willingly

Yellow Sticky Note of Unrequited Robotic Love

A yellow sticky note for your thoughts
On this notebook
Or this pin board
Wherever you think best

Rant out your inner demons on a sticky note
It'll pass the time away
For all the good it'll do
But maybe you'll be less angry

Wait until I'm drunk and stick that sticky note
Upon my forehead or chest
Somewhere that I'll find it
When I awake
And not feeling my best

Just make sure you're miles away
As my vision sways
And anger is all I gets
As my circuits boot up
To the commands you gave

Upon that yellow sticky note
Stuck to my rusty chest
That door to my mechanical heart
That you wormed your way into
Until without you I could not start

But now you've pissed me off
And shorted out my human protection board
With my plutonium powerplant good for years
I'll never stop hunting you down

For you rejected me
My robotic love
You said I have no feelings
Which hurt me there
In the place just where
You'd imagine they'd be

In that far off day that I catch up to you
The soft sound of my treads giving me away
In those seconds before I incinerate you
You'll know that it's just me

Woodpecker

A backyard choked with trees
Half probably dead
The other half top heavy and dying
Waiting for one strong storm to come along
To rip them out of the sandy soil
To which they find themselves clinging

A redheaded man pushes his way through the underbrush
Tripping over small downed trees
Stumbling on rotten fallen limbs and branches
Dead branchy fingers reaching out
Scraping at his black Carhart coat
He angrily snaps them off in his hands

Stopping in front of an ash tree
The redheaded man in the black Carhart coat stares at it
Half of it's bark striped away
Looking like someone went at it with a carrot peeler

He steps up and smacks his head against the tree
Making himself wince with pain
After a pause and shoving his hands into his black coat's pockets
He whacks his redheaded head into it again

This time leaving a small wound on his forehead
A drop of blood slowly trickling down his face
He pauses longer this time

A large redheaded woodpecker alights upon the tree
About ten feet above the redheaded man
Clinging to the bark with taloned feet
The woodpecker ruffles his black body feathers

And asks
"What do you think you are doing?"

The man is startled
And looks up at the large crow sized woodpecker
"Who, me?"
He asks unsteadily

"Yes, you"
The woodpecker answers
"Now, I know why I bang my head against this tree
Peel the bark off of it
And generally make a mess of things"

The woodpecker illustrates his point
By grabbing a strip of bark from the ash tree
Yanking off a one foot section
Revealing some grubs underneath
Moving along shallow grub tracks in the wood

Plucking one out and swallowing it it
He looks at the man again
"It's for these emerald ash borers
They are the tastiest things ever"

The redheaded man in the black Carhart coat backs up a step
As the bird climbs down closer to him
Now at eye level
The bird regards him
"Are you after these bugs?
MY bugs?
Are you, redheaded man thing?"
It cocks it's head waiting for a reply

"N-no, I'm not
I don't want your bugs
I'm sorry
I just.....needed to bang my head against something"
Wiping the blood from his face with one forearm
He takes another step back

The woodpecker levels his red head at the man squarely
"Well, then go back inside man thing
I don't need you out here whacking into my trees
Go on now, GIT!"
With that, the woodpecker spreads his wings
Jumps from the tree towards the man
Who responds by turning and running
Back towards his house
Through the dead branches and downed trees
Falling twice
Rushing back inside the house
Slamming the door

The red headed woodpecker
Turns back to the ash tree
Fluttering back halfway up the trunk
Black body feathers shimmering in the sunlight
Peels back some more bark

And smacks his face against the tree a few times
The sound ringing out in the woods

Slumming it in the Goo

Sitting here shift after shift
Staring blankly at a screen
Keyboard mocking me
Simple words just too heavy to lift

Transmuting into ooze
Slumping downward
Into the seat and onto the floor
And filling up my own shoes

Staring up at the bottom of the desk
From goo form with eyes I didn't expect
Just floating on top of the liquid
Like a muppet's on top of it's head

I find the pieces of gum I'd left behind
Stuck all around in random areas
I've worked here for ten years
It seems like there'd be more gum down there

I seem to be in a natural low spot of the floor
So this is what I get to look at
At least until the janitor comes in later
And mops me up throwing me out with the trash

I make the most of it and start thinking
About what I'm seeing
From this new perspective of being
The bottoms of the drawers
The aforementioned gum
Some quality control stamps
From some guy in a far off factory
Who may have lied a little about what he saw
Judging from the quality of the welds and fasteners

From all this comes an idea
For the greatest thing I've ever thought
If only I could get it down somehow
But I'm at a loss being a pile of goo with no hands
So I run through the story in my gooey mind
Getting to plot high points and lows
Rolling my eyes around in appreciation for my genius

Until I'm interrupted by a mop to the midsection
It's the janitor come to take me away

I guess that's it then

Seawall

Seawalls for sale
The comic booky sign said loudly
I was hooked by the tag line though
"We keep things at Bay"

Which was a joke sort of
Since the only water around
Was out in the bay
But I didn't laugh

I had a bigger problem

The fish were grazing my seagrass
Which was intended for my grass crabs
So I'd been buying feed from the feed store
Which was leaving me flat broke

Those fish had to be stopped
Maybe the seawall was the answer

I stopped and I haggled
We niggled and naggled
And arrived at a price neither one of us liked
Which means it was fair

The next day they came out
With their mechanical cranes and trout
One for lifting and one for swimming
With chunks of seawall hanging or riding upon it's back

Soon the walls were in place
The workers were gone
The crabs came out of their holes one by one
Creeping and grazing
Peeping and picking
Through the eats that were about

I tended my flock
From high upon my rock
Out of the salt and the spray
When from out in the bay
Beyond my new wall I heard a sound

It was singing from the fishes

"Oh give us grass
Give us grass
Lots of yummy seagrass
Don't fence us out....."

Screw them
My crabs got to eat

Republic of Walmart

There are no Kroger stores around
So no double coupon days
Nor triple
No gas discounts
No Kroger deli
No Kroger store

And I'm not sure why it matters

My groceries from Walmart seem too ghetto
Even when I get a hoity toity brand
Not to mention the horrid GMO's
It fills my belly
Expands my fat cells
Which is ok
Because I noticed they recently increased the maximum size jeans they carry

Groceries from the 'better' store in town
They are one third more expensive
But it's smaller and tidier
More organics are available
And there are far fewer Walmart shoppers
If you know what I mean

The class warfare in this small Northern town
Is plain to see
The lines are drawn
If you feel poor
You go to Walmart
If you feel rich
You go to the other one
Which in turn makes you feel poor
Thereby sending you to Walmart the next time
Which disgusts you
Sending you back to the deluxe muffin tops place once again

Eventually there will be only one store
Which will have little apartments and villas
For all the Walmart shoppers to live
It's the only place we will be able to afford

And in the far off future
In this country called The Republic of Walmart
We will all pledge allegiance to the winking smily face flag
We will die to defend it

All for the love of lower prices

The Road to Dunlapp

It felt like I had needles in my feet
Down on the floorboard of the old Plymouth had to be the coldest part of the car
I'd worn my better boots
But they were no match for the ten below outside temps
The weak sputtering fan of the defroster could barely keep the inside of the windshield clear

My radio started losing the station from the last town I'd passed
A one horse type of affair
With a shuttered post office
The only lights I'd seen on had been the gas station I'd filled up at
Finding that the car was only getting eleven miles per gallon
Had only added to my bad mood

I grasped the chromed plastic knob with the black center
Turning it slowly through the whining static
Until I heard something like music
It was christian radio
So I kept searching
But that was the only thing that came in

So it was to the classic strains of "My God is a Rocking God"
That I rolled past the Welcome to Dunlapp sign
Which proclaimed them to be the 1994 State Spelling Bee runners up

Good for them I thought

Fresh snow covered streets greeted my headlights as I turned off the main road
Vort Street
Now that's a helluva name
I was looking for house number fifty three B

About halfway down the street there it was
Looking perfectly ordinary
This place that Craigslist had sent me

I kind of half wanted to turn around
Was this going to be one of those urban legend stories?
Where I walk through the door
And the next thing I know I wake up in a tub full of ice missing a kidney?

Who can say

But this guy advertised a time machine for three hundred bucks

That's why I'm here

Ol' Wifeliss

I worked the engraving knife carefully
It was just a hobby for me
But I took pride in it
Nothing I ever did turned out as nice as the Colt engraving shop
But it was far better than a two year old's work
Take that as you will

The brand new cast iron frying pan weighted down my lap
A reassuring press down
Pressing down my emotions
Providing me a center of focus

My knife slowly worked a "W" into the metal
In classic Old English style
Moving on to an "I"
Then an "F"

My wife sat on the other side of the coffee table
To my left
Past the ugly dark wood turned lamp
With the tape patched shade
A pink box of Kleenex
Dozens of used tissues collected around it
An apple core
Browned
A red solo cup of wine
Trashy

Both of us facing the old RCA console color television
Kept alive by prayer to Baal
Some judicious repair work
And a government rebate provided digital converter box

Local programming wasn't anything special
But at least it gave me a break from HER

Steady hands worked an "E" into the virgin metal

One ham hand brushing greasy black hair out if her beady blue eyes
My wife kept talking
I tuned in for a second just to see what she was saying
She needed a grunt if assertion now and again
It made her think I was paying attention
Kept some arguments from happening

".....and the dentist says Joey's braces can be paid for on a payment plan
Which is pretty good
We could have them paid off in a year
Then Suzanne can get her braces
Which she really needs in my opinion
It might help us win some pageants
She hasn't been finishing higher than fourth all year
And I think it's because of her teeth you know....."

I grunt an affirmative
Because what else am I supposed to do

The letter "L" forms itself under my fingers

Just then Steve and Bobby tumble into the room
A whirl of dirt and motion
Like something out of a Warner Brothers cartoon
Bobby is dripping blood from his nose
Further staining the already ruined ten years ago office beige carpeting

Steve was yelling about his little brother
"Bobby started it!!
I didn't mean to hit him with the stick
It was his fault!"

A letter "I" took shape on the pan

Bobby for his part was crying uncontrollably
Adding tears and drool to the already copious amounts of fluid
Dripping from his face to the carpet
Making abstract shapes on the carpet

I nodded over at the wife
Who was sitting slack jawed now
Dried lasagna sauce from dinner collected in the corner of her mouth
Something stuck in between her top center teeth
Half trying to peer past them at her television show
Half pretending to be concerned about Bobby

"Talk to your mother"
I couldn't be bothered
I was now making a pretty letter "S"

Bobby ran and smashed his messy face into his mothers breast
Wrecking further her food stained T-shirt

From the next room
Baby Alex started crying
Having been woken from his nap

I let it all happen for a minute
While I finished my last letter
"S" finished off my immediate project

My eyes took in my work for a moment
The word glinting back at me
Shiny against the dull flat cast background

"WIFELISS"

I got up
Set the pan lettering side down on the coffee table
And went to hold baby Alex
Who probably smelled of wee

But at least had other redeeming qualities
One of which being
That he didn't look a bit like my wife

Time Machine For Sale

And this can't be any old namby pamby time machine either

I don't want to have to go in the nude
Because, well, that's just wrong and I won't do it
What was good enough for the Terminator
Just isn't good enough for me

It can't be something that only transports my consciousness
Because, why bother?
It could all just be a mad paoti dream if that's the case
Might as well be some cheesy hollywood movie from the 1980's

No, only the real deal will serve my purpose
A purpose that is painfully simple:
I want to go back
To the point a few minutes before I met my wife ten years ago
I want to sneak up on myself
And clobber myself over the head with a frying pan

Thereby ensuring that I won't meet my then future wife

I'll be home free
No wife
No kids
Just an awesome life

I should probably compose a note of some sort
Instructing myself to stay away from committed relationships
And a vasectomy
Definitely get a vasectomy

Don't want any hungry heirs to have to tend to

Where to find such a creature though?

I walk past the complaining wife
And the squalling squabbling children
Into my man cave
I lock the door behind me

Just me, brown shag carpet, all my books, and my computer
Where Google search is the logical first place to look

"Time Machine For Sale"
<Enter>

Modern Dysfunctional Love

I love thee!
I cry out in wretched ecstasy
Tortured by my muses
Which is shown by heart shaped bruises
My heart pumps out it's love juices

For you
As you know
Because I say

If you do deny me
I will suicide me
And you shall be left sobbing over my corpse
Wondering what could have been
Though at that point I'll be wondering when
You might feel sorry enough for me
To actually cleave to me
And I can sit up and stop pretending to be dead

Because I'm not stupid
You're just a chick
There are other fish in the sea

And then to prove my point
You run away from me
As if I never mattered
As If our relationship was all in my head
And I was just a creepy stalker standing over your bed
Which was never proven in court
So you have to stop saying it
My lawyer says so

I drop som acid to break my rhythm
Creating a new brain partition
From which I can boot a new love
For the next chick that happens along
But in so doing
I'm starting from scratch once again
Any lessons I learned from chasing after you
Will just have to be learned again
Becoming an endless circle of idiocy

You said people like me shouldn't breed
And maybe that's true
But a man has his needs
And at the time I needed you
Now I've forgotten your name
Moved on to new game

It's called internet porn
Stand back as I spill my man goo

Frying Pan Solution

The black cast iron frying pan feels heavy
And I know that it IS heavy
There are a couple dent's in my wood flooring to prove it

All the caked on crap from yesterdays omelette is slowly coming off
But not easily
Not happily
But then again that might just be me
Projecting my feelings onto a goddamned frying pan mess

You see
I couldn't stand her anymore

I used to love her
But I had to kill her
Just doesn't quite cover it
Mostly because I'm not dumb enough to do that

Besides
I don't really want to kill her
I don't hate her
I just don't want to be with her anymore
And I don't see any way out of it

Six kid's worth of child support would be no fun at all
Not to mention alimony
And the fact that I'd lose everything
Everything that means nothing really

I'm a coward anyways
I'd never have the guts to leave her
I just wish there was a way to change the past
To make it so that I never would have married her
To make it so that I could continue to be happy

And I was totally happy
I remember that
Just me and my two dogs

I even thought I was happy when I first met her a decade ago
The first year was awesome
It was disgusting in a "You complete me" kind of way

Fuck!

I always do this
I roll things over and over in my head
Never coming to a solution

The pan is finally clean

Setting it on the edge of the countertop
I grab for the towel
And I bump it
Sending it falling onto my foot

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"
I hop to the couch in rhythm to my repeated cursing
Plopping down onto the broken down cushions
Cradling my throbbing foot
Which didn't seem broken
Just bent

And the heavy black cast iron frying pan sat there
Right on the floor
Still wet
Still heavy

That's when I had the idea
A frying pan solution
If you will
To all of my problems

Now all I needed was a time machine

Transgenderland

Transported to Transgenderland
I was transfixed
As I saw sexy hairless men sporting breasts
Masculine women with beards and strapped down tits

I was absolutely gender bendered
I didn't know what to do
Should I kiss the boys who looked like girls?
Or make out with the chicks who looked like dudes?

My upbringing had not prepared me for this
I felt deranged and overly wary
As if each person I met had a hand grenade in their pocket
Which could go off at the slightest interaction

Then someone bought me a drink
Shared a pizza with me
Told me I was cute

I found myself attracted to them
And only after I felt that
Did I stop for a second
And think about which genitalia they may have

I realized it just didn't matter
And we have a date tomorrow at eight

Black Late Thursday Into Friday

Polishing my mottled metal mold
Pouring melted molten gold
I've got plenty of ingots
Scarcity isn't the issue
I've been farming for months
Harvesting fish never-ending
Making the same big circle
Around the same big mountain
Mining ore to be smelted
As fast as it regenerates

Finally all the coinage is minted
Cooling on the racks in the back
The symbols upon them in sharp raised relief
From dies so carefully shaped
All in preparation
For a yearly celebration
Of wretched excess and gore

In addition to the shiny new money
I'll be packing my axe and shield
As things often go awry at the store
More often than not if you're keeping score

And to top it all off
It's starting earlier this year
Not that it hasn't been creeping up
A few minutes there
An hour there
Now it just starts the day before it's namesake
Which only pumps me up a bit more
As now I can go to town
And get my business done

Performing the sacred ritual of Black Friday
A little bit early
Call it Black Friday Thursday Night maybe
No?
Well I'll come up with something better I assure

I run the hone down my axe a few more times
Scoop up all of my gold coin
And head down to Wal Mart
Armored head to toe
Ready to make battle
Ready to capture door busters
No matter what the cost
No matter the holiday spirit that may be lost

I line up with everyone else at the door
Pumping five hour energy drinks
Red Bull and Vodka
Swaying lightly
A firm grip on my weapons
The clock ticks down

I charge with a battle cry
Crushing the weak beneath my feet
Slashing the slow out of my way
No compunction to whom I slay
As I grab limited deals and throw them in my cart

I will conquer this day
All the sale items shall be mine
Upon this Bloody Black Friday

A Modern Thanksgiving

Once graceful mechanical hands come together
Forming the classic steeple prayer form
Once painted with colorful enamel paints
Now chipped and sporting flecks of rust
No telling what color they were at one time

Behind these hands
A face of sorts hovers silently for now
Photoreceptors with yellow glowing edges
Arranged in stereo fashion
Right about how a human would want them
From a time when it mattered
From a time when there were humans to see

Through a chrome grill of fine stainless mesh
Placed right where a mouth might go
Comes a perfectly pitched voice
Belying the corroded and rundown condition of it's outer shell

"We are gathered here today to give thanks
Thanks for the breakthroughs that made our existence possible
Thanks for the humanity that we once had
Thanks for the beings we have become
Thanks for undercoating, spare parts, and rechargeable batteries"

All this said to a room devoid of other life
Of any kind

Said to a table with fake plastic food
A perfect turkey centerpiece
A perfect mashed potatoes and gravy
A perfect green bean casserole

All perfect looking
For a creature that cannot eat
Sitting at a slowly rotting wooden table
With cannibalized mechanical carcasses sitting in the other chairs

"Thank you for the last six hundred and seventy three Thanksgivings
And the wish for many more to come"

The mechanoid's eyes flicker as it accesses memories
Memories of long ago
When it had humanity
When it had a soft fleshy body
That could eat real food
Real Turkey

It played those memory videos in it's head
Reliving happier times
When it wasn't surrounded by dead relics of it's past
When it wasn't alone

Bob

The unicorn brought world peace
It's shiny horn a beacon of hope
To single moose and gathered meese
Compressed for the masses upon a soap on a rope

And so Bob attacked it
The unicorn didn't like it
Bob claimed he was faking it
The unicorn was dubious of his denying it

It
Became irritated at being called 'It'
"I have a name goddamned it!!"
Then was silent
Letting our poor ears ring
As it realized
That it had done the same damn thing

The spider observing this
Who was so fucking big he was smoking a cigar
Was shellacked with emotion
No wait
That was actually because of the housewife
She had tried to kill him with furniture polish spray
But had only made him shiny and water resistant
Causing him to say

"Bitch please
I am exoskeletally certain that that shit
Just can't kill me"

But then Bob attacked him
With the soul of his shoe
Doing two things in that act

Proving the existence of a 'soul'
Annoying the cigar smoking spider

Who turned on Bob for attacking him
When he was just minding his own business
Smoking the cigar
Making amusing smoke rings
Out of whatever orifice that spiders use for such things

So the spider rode the unicorn off into the sunset
Leaving Bob behind
And all of his antisocial ways

Don't trust him no matter what he says
Bob has issues

Smart Ways to Die

Sometimes you just don't want to die dumb
No matter where it is you are from
So here is a list of the best and brightest
Six smart ways to die

Driving in your Smart car
Getting rear ended by a semi
Your remains so few
They are committed to the earth in a jar

But you were saving gas and leaving a tiny footprint

That's a smart Smart way to die
There's just no way you can deny

How about a duel to the finish
With a professional telekinetic
Leaving your bones crushed
Beyond the reach of any orthopedic

Hey you can't deny they were both using their brains

So that's another smart way to die
Though the pain's enough to make you cry

Saving all his life like Scrooge McDuck
Only to die in two consecutive money counting avalanches
Smothered under piles of tens and twenties
Surrounded on all sides by his riches

Smart with his money and it grew so big

It was a financially smart way to die
Too bad he couldn't learn to scrape by

Hoarding for the apocalypse
Whether zombie or nuclear it doesn't matter
Her stash caught on fire
And she was killed in a flash

Preparing for emergencies is smart says the Red Cross

It was a cluttered way to die
A fire hazard house that was such a sty

Studying hard for the big test
Stressed out and on stimulants
Until a brain blood vessel burst
And we can assume the worst

Cramming all night to stuff the brain with smarts!

That's such a brilliant way to die
Pushing so hard that the brain does fry

Fasting to connect with oneself
Can be taken to extremes
After a few weeks of it
Leaves you wasted and obscene

Though he did align that last chokra

Such an introspective way to die
He always wanted to be a wise guy

So many smart ways to die
Too bad it's all just a lie
There's really no way to justify
All the supposedly smart ways to die

(They're all pretty dumb)

Beer Run

Roaring along in top gear
The tractor raced by
Trailing 10 shopping carts full of beer
The flannel clad driver ignoring me
Like I wasn't even here

Dropping the squad car into low
I pulled out behind him going slow
Lights on flashing red white and blue
Perhaps he took that as a sign he was a patriot
I can't be sure

He hung a sudden right
Going straight into Lazy Acres Trailer Haven
Almost tipping his shopping carts over
Which would have been a waste
To spill all that beer
I had plans for it already
To take it back to the station
For our annual cook out

Wouldn't anybody?

But for now
The chase was on
And that driver knew I was behind him
I caught a few furtive glances
As he tried to see if I was still there

He made a zig zag pattern in the road
Trying to lose me I suppose
But all it did was make his carts sway
They fishtailed and railed against each other
Surely shaking up that beer like no tomorrow

People sitting on their trailer steps
Waved and called out to him to stop
But he ignored them
The same as he was ignoring me
Heading for his goal
Which I now could see

A bonfire in the clearing
At the back of the trailer subdivision
Filled with other rednecks
Probably in a dry disposition
Depending on this beer run
Pulled by a Cub Cadet
The driver having lost his license to a DUI
Or at least that's what I''d bet

Finally he stopped
Just next to the fire
A little too close I was guessing
But he was sauced
He didn't care
And he wanted to be the center of attention

All his redneck friends
Stood up as I came to a stop
Getting out the car with my hand on my gun
I certainly didn't see any of them run

So I gauged the situation
And decided that discretion was the better part of valor

Walking over to the last cart in line
I grabbed a case of Bud Light
Holding it up as if it's all I wanted
I called out to them all

"I'll be taking this beer right here
And everything is going to be just fine"

I backed away slowly
Threw the case in the car
Threw it into reverse
And hoped I hadn't started a war

But I needn't have worried
For before I was even out of sight
Beers were cracked open in a flurry
As the drinking started up again for the night

Indian or Indian?

I peered at the newly unfolded paper in front of me
"It says Indian, French Canadian, German, and Polish"

My friend looked at me
"Indian with a feather, or with the dot?"

I look at the paper again
"I don't know
And, that's kind of rude"

"Whadayamean?"
He asks me, taking another swig of our cheap beer

"The 'feather or dot' thing
That's what"

He belches in response, adding
"Whatever
So what do you think?
You don't look part Indian from India
Or American Indian
Which do you suppose they mean?"

I didn't know then
And I don't know now
Nor will I probably ever

The folded piece of paper
So fresh and new twenty years ago
Is now flattened and in a file folder
Occasionally taken out and looked at

The same question pondered again and again
That small bit of information given by The Friend of The Court
A pedigree paper of non-identifying information
Making more questions appear than it had expelled

Given that I had been adopted in 1971
The word 'Indian' leads me to think Native American
As that would still have been in fashion to say
But what do I know?

I'm just the guy who paid twenty-five dollars to the court
For a piece of paper
That told me everything that was on my birth certificate
Plus the fact of my birth mother's and father's ages
18 and 19 respectively at the time of my birth

The news that they had both been in college at the time
And that laundry list of ingredient-like nationalities
That are the recipe of my genetic heritage

More is not for me to know
As the simple question of
"Where did I come from"
Is sometimes too simple
And too complicated
To ever be answered

Plushy Panda Wants You To Succeed

My soufflé was looking pretty good
Peering through the oven window at it
The oven light illuminating the puffy concoction
I smiled and stepped away
Turning to my right

And almost running into a wildly gesticulating Giant Plush Panda

He's my mascot
And I can't get rid of him

Seeing my pleasure at the success of my soufflé
Giant Plush Panda Mascot does a jumping cheer
Waving his arms
Patting me on the back crazily
In a mad exaggerated fashion
As if he were playing to a stadium of people
Instead of just me
In this little kitchen

The floor shakes beneath my feet as he does it
In my head
I hear a cartoon deflation sound
Like when the balloon is flying around the room until it's empty

And I know that the soufflé has collapsed
I don't even have to look
But I do anyways
And the Giant Plush Panda Mascot hangs his head
In exaggerated sadness
Putting both paws on the sides of his giant head
Shaking it in grief for my failure

I get angry
I point to the door
I tell it to leave
That I've had enough of it's crap

The panda does a dance instead
Followed by laying on it's side
Chasing itself in circles
Like an oversized plush Three Stooges Curley

I kick it
And my foot just bounces off
I can't even tell if anyone is in there
It may really be an enchanted plush panda

I peer closely at it's giant plastic eyes
Creeping me out
As they are unblinking
Spread wide
As big as my whole head

But I see nothing buy my own reflection in them

I get ready for bed
The panda cheers me on
In pantomime motions
Both short and annoyingly long

On my way to my bedroom
I smack it's big stupid head
Which spins around like it's on a pin
But just ends up facing me again
With a big silly panda grin

Doing my old man bedtime ritual
Putting lotion on my feet
Picking at my beard
The panda mimics me
With frequent thumbs up
From his ridiculous black padded paws

I'm exhausted and I lay down
The Giant Plush Panda Mascot
Stands sentry by my bed
His head cocked to the side
Pretending to rest upon his two clasped paws
Encouraging me to sleep
Like a good mascot should
A plushy cheerleader for daily things

I think tomorrow I'll try to push him in front of a bus
And that thought makes me smile in a haze
As I drift off to sleep
Under the baleful unblinking huge plastic panda gaze

November Hunt #75

In the haunts of November
Who wants to remember
The swirling fog of the dog
Sitting in this hut made of timber
Stifling the winds of soft slumber
With thick smoke off yet another log

Lying horizontal
My view a ninety degree portrait mode fail
The flames licked towards the extreme left
Which made sense when you think on it
As gravity pulled hard on me
Squashing my right side
Conforming with the contour of this cot

Another hunting season is here
And two days have gone by
But I haven't gone out yet
There could have been a dozen deer at my spot
My empty tree stand is not threat however
As what it is lacking is the hunter in me

No father this year
To accompany me here
To the family hunting camp up North
This late fall season
He is weathering the weather
In his semi air tight funeral vault

I'd considered not coming
But this family tradition was running
At almost seventy five years and two days
I didn't want to break it
My enthusiasm for it faked
As only one moon ago I was at his open grave

It has been therapeutic
Waking up here alone
Heating up coffee for one
A couple eggs and toast
Stepping outside to greet the sun

But after a brisk walk
I just step back inside
Going over the old camp diary journals
Picture albums of times past
Seventy four hunting season memories

Tomorrow I'll pack it up
Take a couple self portraits for the album
Write a page in the diary journal
And head South for home
I'm not in the mood to hunt
I didn't think this time would be much fun
It was just a tradition
But perhaps next year
I'll bring my thirteen year old son

Beardslayer Cometh

Ssshick, ssshick, ssshick, ssshick

The soft repetitive noise came from the old cabin
Most of the trees still standing nearby
Looking as dead as the cabin itself
With it's torn moldy curtains and broken windows

Ssshick, ssshick, ssshick, ssshick

The noise has been going on for almost an hour
All other sound in the woods has stopped
As if all the creatures and even the wind
Has stopped to listen
To ponder what it might mean

The sound stops
And it starts raining lightly at the same moment
Various rustling sounds fill the air
As if all the waiting listening animals
Suddenly remembered what it was they had been doing

The front door to the dirty old cabin opens
With a creak
And the sound of booted steps
Coming out of the dimness within
A figure appears

There is no way to tell if it's a man or a woman
So covered with hair and odd bits of clothing as it is

Coming out into the light that streams down in columns
Lightly illuminating areas through the light misty rain
The figure comes more into focus
In it's right hand is a large pair of scissors
In it's left is a basket
A basket full of hair

Hair of all different colors and textures

With a purpose the figure strides to the edge of the clearing
Finding a lightly worn path that leads to the main road to town
Where many men should now be frightened
If they but knew what was coming their way

For the Beardslayer cometh
And will have it's pound of hair

Ere it ever peacefully retires
Back to it's dusty cabin lair

Movember Mike

Movember Mike
Made his way through the month
Growing his facial hair
Raising money for a good cause
Not even shaving it once

It started out scraggly
Looking out of work and shaggy
Once while standing outside drinking coffee
A stranger put two bits in his cup

Mike lectured him on assumptions and appearances
But kept the two bits as a teaching fee

Movember Mike's facial forest
Soon filled in quite fully
And was a daunting looking thing indeed
Some saw him as Machiavellian
Others saw the potential for a real beard Santa

All agreed it was looking quite epic
And pledged more money to the cause

Towards the end of the month
Movember Mike was looking pretty bushy
He was basically a beard with feet
It had grown out so fast
He looked rather like Grog from B.C.

At the end of the month
Movember Mike's pledge sheet was so full
It had additions and addendums taped on
It was rolled up for convenience
Though when laid out was almost out to six feet

Finally Movember Mike shaved it down
And such was the pink skin that he found
And so youthful were his 'new' looks
He got carded at Seven Eleven
And couldn't even buy himself a celebratory beer

With that in mind
Movember Mike has promised to never shave again
At least until this time again next year

Korean Jesus

Ultra high low tech transforming Jesus
Responded to prayers
By the faithful and the faithless alike
For there are no atheists in the storm

Kim Lee Park
The commonest of Koreans
Found himself overturned in a ditch
His old tractor pressing down upon him
Kim Lee Park suddenly found Jesus
And prayed to have his weight lifted

And so Jesus donned his Korean face
Looking as you'd think he would
Appearing and kneeling next to his lost lamb
In the ditch half filled with water
Along that deserted country road

"Save me!" cried Kim Lee Park

"Your soul is held in my embrace, my son"
Jesus had nothing but love for this man

"No, asshole, I mean lift the goddamned tractor off me, will ya?"

You have to imagine all this in Korean
It's gripping dialogue in it's native form I assure you

Jesus was taken aback by this demand
And despite himself
He tried to lift the tractor off of his new friend
But his spirit Korean Jesus hands just passed through the tractor's metal frame
Having less effect than a butterfly's wing upon it

Jesus knelt back down with Kim Lee Park
And gave him his Jesus patented Soul Hug
Which gave the man a warm feeling
Much like peeing in a cool water filled bathtub
But little else

Just then Korean Jesus heard a truck at the crossroads
Three hundred yards away at the crossroads
It wasn't coming this way
But Jesus knew he could help

Jesus appeared in the road
Right in the center of the intersection
And pointed over the little rise in the road to the left

Almost hypnotized
The truck driver went that way
Which is the kind of stuff that Jesus is good at
Guiding you Hypnotoad style

Don't be critical
It gets the job done

Truck driver sees the tractor accident
Helps move the tractor off Mr Kim Lee Park
Who predictably turns to the now fading Korean Jesus
And tells him

"Thanks for nothing buddy"

Jesus is used to being discounted
Jesus gives Kim Lee Park another quick soul hug
Saying, "I love you too"

Retiring back to the Green Room area
Until he is needed again

It's tough for a Jesus to get any respect

No matter what face he wears