Poetry



If At First You Don't Succeed
 
Gil bet Twenty on Ten,
And Forty on Four.
 
The first came in last,
And the second didn't score.
 
He tried all the strategies,
Used every graph and equation.
 
And prayed to saints and deities,
Of nearly every persuasion.
 
He spent all his evenings, 
At the track with the horses.
 
And that's why poor Gil,
Has been through three divorces.



Steady Gig
 
Piano-playing monkey in a honky-tonk bar.

His simian fingers glide over the keys,
With style, grace and an effortless ease.

As the crowd hoots and cheers,
And swallows their beers.



The Middle

I'm here in the middle,
Can't see out either end.
 
If things stay straight then I'll be great,
But what if there's a bend?
 
If I could just choose one-way or the other,
I think things would be alright. 
 
But I'm still stuck here in the middle,
And there's no end in sight.



Fringe Benefits
 
Oh the life of the candy inspector
Searching sweets for flaws and defects
 
Ensuring each heavenly confection
Is a pristine picture of perfection
 
And consuming the delicious rejects



Three of a Kind
 
I once knew a trio of sinister sisters

Who helped each other bump off their miserly misters
 
Now they dwell together as old wealthy widows
 
And frighten the children who peer through their windows



Lost Soles

Got rocks in my sneakers, so I took them off
Got holes in my socks, so I removed them too
Got blisters on my feet, so I ditched my skin
Now my bones are aching and I miss my shoes



Low Wage Blues

How I wish that they'd pay me more money,
At my scholastic-based techy type job
 
Computer skills pay big bucks in the business world,
But here I'm just a civil servant slob
 
And if I had that sweet surplus cash,
Oh the things I'd attain
 
Until my wants once again outstripped my means,
And brought me back here to complain



Underhanded

Severed right hand
Crawls across the dirt
 
Cut off by the other
Who swore it wouldn't hurt
 
It's sneaking up my back now
To make its final stand
 
And get its sweet revenge
On my lying left hand. 



In Defense of Herbert West

It's just a little hobby; completely innocent as I'm sure you'll see.
And I feel you're being unreasonable and I wish you'd let me be.
 
Some people collect old coins or stamps to fill their dreary days.
While I revive the recently deceased and send them on their way.
 
Though you might find this ghastly, I'm really fulfilling a useful service.
And my simple life's ambition should be no reason to feel nervous.
 
So please don't loose your prejudice upon my work, or the souls that I assist.
Those I've found decaying in the ground assure me they won't be missed.
 
Let us all look to the golden rule written in our sacred spiritual texts.
Grant me leave in this life and I'll do the same for you in the next.



Joy

Hearing Dee Dee counting off four.
Bowie as Ziggy singing Suffragette City.

Borderland stories of otherworldly lore
Frank McCourt telling tales of the old country.

Johnny aping Keaton with forks and dinner rolls.
Or wearing an angora sweater and a pair of pantyhose.

Fresh cut pieces of Nigiri and Maki.
Enjoyed with friends over small cups of Sake.

Warm, rare steak and dry, red wine.
Someone to share it with and while away the time.

Simple things that change us into a child with a shiny, new toy.
Fragments of happiness that evoke in us a familiar feeling of joy.



Halloween
 
Starts off young and innocent, the sweet looking for sweets.
 
My brother and I wear smiles concealed by costume, while my twin sister scowls at the camera for lack of such convenient camouflage.
 
Time flies with the fur becoming Alf one year and Werewolf the next.
 
Awkward Junior High years show in my masquerade as I enter school as one of the bloodied and bruised. Before the festivities of the day can begin I faint and fall to the floor. The combination of costume and lack of consciousness nearly cause the principal to do the same.
 
Teenage angst leaves less time for dressing up and ringing bells for Reese's cups. Joe and I make one last go of it, though our costume of "miscreant boys" is greeted with scorn rather than smiles.
 
Years pass and things change, but stay the same.
 
Movies still provide plenty of scares and pumpkins are still there for the carving. With a job and a place of my own I no longer need to plead at doors for a dose of sweets, but one look at my ever increasing middle makes me think that having to run around to acquire candy was a much wiser way to live.
 
In my mind I start to plan parties. Rooms strewn with streamers of orange, black, purple and green where friends can get together covered in costumes that make them feel like they did when they were kids begging for candy.



Secret Ingredient
 
It's true you may not like their tactics,
But you must admit it makes quite an impression.
To find your box brimming with prophylactics,
Though perhaps they should've used more discretion.
 
Food and sex oft go hand-in-hand,
Both appealing to our wanton desires.
To some it likely seemed a pretty good plan,
But couldn't they just have handed out flyers?
 
Now I'm no marketing genius,
Heaven knows I couldn't do better.
But it seems to make people quite squeamish,
To find latex mixed in with their letters.

(Inspired by this news article.)



Workplace Blues
 
Fiery speeches and mission statements attempt to motivate me.
But try as they might, their workplace plight simply does not captivate me.

Pastry trays and power lunches do nothing to persuade me.
They don't conceive that I'd just leave if they ever ceased to pay me.
 
I try my best to act astute and appear that I'm involved.
But hidden beneath my pad of notes, is the crossword I've just solved.
 
Inspiration from this place cannot possibly be wrought.
Accumulation has been my only friend, these things that I have bought.
 
And though I yearn to sweat and toil in great passion for my job.
It's all too clear that my position here will remain a paper-pushing slob.

So I wile my days away, dreaming of an exciting artistic career.
But for now it seems I've deferred my dreams, cause they sure ain't happening here.

But I suppose it's futile to grouse about the life I haven't got.
The only means to achieve my dreams, is to shit or get off the pot.



Streets

The streetlights reflect off the asphalt, turning this night into day
And all the kids come out to play; they run along the city streets,
Wondering who or what they might meet this day, this night

Everyone feels alright; their cares have been raced away
Taken by the passing of speeding cars; headlights fly by like shooting stars

Boys and girls sitting on curbs, not saying a single word to one another
Just letting the night air wash over them as they listen to songs from a nearby stereo.

There’s an electricity that rises up from the road and into their feet.
It tingles in their toes and makes them hit the street like lunatics running from an asylum.

They’re screaming and wailing and stomping and swaying on the asphalt,
That reflects up the streetlight and turns this day into night.



Shadow's Sister
 
She slinks and slithers in shadow,
And lingers with the night.
She shrinks away from breaking day,
And hides her form from light.
 
Her eyes darken with the dawn.
Her flesh turns tallow and pale.
How could ever heaven spawn.
A creature so meek and frail.
 
But when the sun has faded.
She sparkles with the stars.
And frolics with the fireflies
Free from mason jars
 
But sweet darkness could never love,
Its poor nocturnal bride.
And as moon beams fell from up above,
She slowly turned and cried.



With Apologies to Sir Edmund Spencer
 
Rose are red.
Violets are blue.
Lies are best kept.
When words are untrue.
 
I buried you deep.
I thought no one knew.
But it seems the police.
Have come looking for you.
 
Your soul has departed.
But your body remains.
And my dark little secret.
In you is contained.
 
I pray they don't find you.
Though I know that they will.
Neath the old knotted tree.
On top of the hill.
 
But fear not my darling.
For to you I am tethered.
And when they destroy me.
We'll still be together.



The Open Road
 
The roads in your land are serene
It's the most perfect place I've ever driven
And though my speed might be viewed as obscene.
I couldn't resist this gift I've been given
 
The wind through my hair and the sun on my face,
Driving here left a lump in my throat
For you this scene might not seem out of place,
But trust me it's wondrous not to worry about goats.

(Inspired by this news article.)



Scripts
 
I went to my physician.
And he put me on these drugs.
Gave me a plethora of prescriptions.
That looked like shiny little bugs.
 
White capsules for my toenails.
And for my gut some purple pills.
A healthy wealth of chemical cocktails.
Designed to take away my ills.
 
But there's still this little tick.
That my dear doctor left behind.
And though he's sure it isn't sick.
I still want something for my mind.



Unwanted Guest
 
Tiny mite inside your ear
You cannot get me out of here
 
I crawled inside while you lay sleeping
You never detected my careful creeping
 
Digging around your tasty brain
The cause of unrelenting pain
 
You pick and prod and poke at me
But I'm still here; you're never free
 
You can try to ignore me, but soon you'll find
That forever I'll stay, inside your mind.



Fear

I suppose that my fears are just a form of anxiety
For it’s the unknown factors in this world that really frighten me.

The man standing next to me, looking over with a crooked smile.
Is he grinning to be friendly or because I’ll be dead in a little while?

And that woman in the lunchroom with her barrage of coughs and sneezes.
Is it a common cold she’s carrying or one of a hundred dread diseases?

While driving I feel queasy unsure of my prowess behind the wheel.
Should edgy folks like me be piloting a giant heap of mobile steel?

Oh and doctors with their needles, you know the kind that poke and prick.
Though I know they want to help me, why do I always end up leaving sick?

And then there’s heights, enclosed spaces, creepy bugs, and rabid dogs.
Flying, live burial, insane waiters, and back-spawning frogs.

Dystychiphobia, Monophobia, Cholerophobia, Caligynephobia.
Alektorophobia, Herpetophobia, Lygophobia, Coulrophobia.

Whether dread, dismay, fright, alarm, terror or horror it’s clear.
These nasty things share the same dark name and that my friends is fear.



S.S.D.C.

Cars hover high in the darkening sky,
Waiting for phosphorescent filaments to rearrange.
Six axis traffic patterns cause daily skyway jams,
I guess it’s true that some things never change.

People living into triple digits,
Makes planning ahead a rather difficult thing to do.
Especially when dwelling in recyclable homes,
That biodegrade quicker than their old bodies used to.

Kids get their kicks from chips in their heads.
Now they worry about CAT scans, not what’s under their beds.

And Reality TV is now a recognized religion.
They pray every evening to the church of television.

Though some things have changed, it’s mostly just the same.
With all the same stuff to try and do and see.

Or maybe at 300 it’s just me who’s old and lame.
But it sure feels like same shit different century.



And lo they were restless
 
They marched in single solitary solemn rows,
and lo they were restless.
 
Great gray masses of flesh and bone, seething ever forward, unstoppable,
and lo they were restless.
 
Their feet struck the ground in unison.
The earth shook and groaned under their terrible might,
and lo they were restless.
 
Their hearts lay still in their hollow chests.
Their blood sat dormant in their veins.
Their ruddy complexions had turned tallow and pale,
and lo they were restless.
 
Their ears heard no sound.
Their muffled, mumbling, voices gave no resonance.
Their feeble murmurs lingered in the air until the wind swept them away,
and lo they were restless.
 
Their eyes saw nothing.
Their gaze revealed only the empty void that filled their lifeless shells.
The sun had long since ceased to be, but they knew nothing of its passing,
and lo they were restless.
 
Their minds thought nothing.
Nary a single flicker entered their brazen skulls.
Their cognitive process had long since ceased to function.
Any realization of what they once were had been taken from them long ago,
and lo they were restless.
 
They continued ever onward,
An unending dirge with no rhyme or reason behind their visage
Marching without fear,
Without hate,
Without joy,
Without love,
Without any meaning,
and still they were restless.