My Politics are Local

My politics are local
I am the president of my couch
My dog is speaker of the house of it
My wife is my Karl Rove
(My Architect not my fat bald guy)

I am the former Senator of my toilet
I served two terms
I lost a re-election bid to the guest towel
He was all attack ads and malicious rumors
Regarding the alleged use of decorative soaps
He went on to pass some major legislation

I cut my political teeth in the kitchen
Where I was elected to the cutting board
There I learned the art of self compromise
An old refrigerator taught me
That all elected officials are corrupt
He took money from a mold problem

I went on to be mayor of the backyard
It was there I had my first taste of controversy
There was lawn-mower-gate
Then Gate-gate
The 24 hour news cycle loved that one
It eventually blew over
It is always that way in local politics

My wife helped me leverage that office
Into a Governorship of the recliner
We were really making a name for myself.

The rumors of a couch candidacy ran rampant
Soon after, I appointed myself
The toilet Senator, which was Her idea
A timely Elvis-style death left a vacancy
Rec Room conspiracy theorists think
She killed my predecessor
Because she did

All is fair in love and local politics they say
Rather she says they say this
I don't know them well

I am mostly a figure head
A lame duck
The Commander and Chief of the couch
Is much less important than it seems
My main concern is legacy building
I think I will put my library in the basement
It would really help the community

I know being a public servant
Is supposed to be its own reward
But as my dog told my wife
Local politics can be ruff

The Politics of Pudding

Pure Fascism in its simplicity
A plain Reactionary dessert
Pirates, Mussolini and Cosby: all fans.
The topography of pudding when piled
Is preferred by insurgents
Perfect for nestling deep into,
Al-qaeda has a private lair in some.
A pilgrim more than a pluralist
Quakers enjoy the idea of pudding
But don’t make a practice of partaking.
Pudding prioritizes prison as punishment
Rather than as rehabilitation
Rehab is for pussies Pudding has been known to say.
Along with Minorities and Mormons
Pudding was pleased with Prop 8.
Marriage not being for pathetic pansies.
On immigration the snack believes
Arizona’s prerogative well within its purview
As a proponent of constitutional Originalism
It has been put in Scalia's sack lunches.
While Presbyterian on paper
Pudding is probably an atheist
Plato over Aristotle
Pimp over Prostitute
Punching over Peace
Power over People
Pudding - A poisonous Nazi Pleasure food.

Psalms 64:7

“The human mind and heart are a mystery; but God will loose an arrow at them, and suddenly they will be wounded”


Psalms 64:7



The forest morning stood still from His stand

And it was good, He remembered.

Fervently he studied the mystery through the falling leaves

Was it good still?

In the distance the brush rustled slightly.

The quiver lightened as he armed the graceful weapon.

Thick callused wrists drew string past cheek.

His tired eyes took careful aim.

Silver tipped shadows broke into the stillness.

Her flesh tore perfectly about the chest; suddenly

Still. Good. Still.

I keep a revolution in my satchel

I keep a revolution in my satchel
It’s small and bearded
Very Che Guvaray
I found it online
But they sell them at Urban Outfitters
It’s black and bespectacled
Very Malcom Xy
Yippied and Big-Nosed
Very Abbie Hoffmany
My revolution is gorgeous
Bite-sized and balding
Very Mao Tse Tsungy
It’s great for parties.
Blood red and Mustachioed
Very Joseph Staliny
Mysterious and Militant
Very Vladamir Leniny
All dreadlocked and doobied
Very Marcus Garveyy
While not televised
It has a killer iPhone app
Out of all the places to keep a revolution
I keep the power of the people in my purse

Insomuch Sandwich

“I love you,” said a man to his sandwich. The fingerlessly gloved man, seated in the corner nook of a public library, spoke toward his bulging pants pocket.  The secret felt warm and cheesy on his leg.  Its smell wafted up from under the table.  He had, moments before, completed a wall of reference books along the outside edge of the peanut shaped table. Some were casually opened, so as not to rouse too much suspicion from the librarians most of whom could be said to be less than sandwich friendly.  To a passerby, he supposed he might appear as a tortured graduate student, one that happened to have cold hands, diligently and precociously seeking knowledge yet unknown to internet search engines.  His plans being much more visceral than knowledge he thought this the perfect cover. He looked however much more like a balding drifter with a pocket full of something sandwich-shaped.  

His eyes dilated.  The moment was immanent.  He reached the ungloved tips of his fingers into his hip pocket and carefully removed a smooshed but radiant beef on rye.  Its onions were red and its tomatoes even more so.  He set it softly on the fake oak covered table.  The sandwich was as thick as the thighs of an Old West burlesque dancer.  The mayonnaise could be seen exploding from a hole in the brown bread like an oily whipped egg volcano.

One of the open books caught his eye.  It felt awkward that he should become distracted by these pages now.  He had spent the morning casually going through the motions of constructing his cover, mentally fixated on his beefy future.  With it inches from his lips he had lost concentration.  “. . . Insomuch . . .” leaped from the page into his cerebral cortex, hurdled thoughts of the sandwich like an ex-Olympian shoplifting; that one word satiated his senses.

He turned away from the splayed knowledge container and toward the lust of his flesh.  He felt exposed seeing it there on the tabletop.  His pocket was empty and cold.  The sandwich seemed different, less lusty somehow.  Immediately his vision was overtaken by another book, “. . . insofar . . .” it read.

These words were as smooshed as any pocket roast beef on rye.  It appeared to be a typo, a ménage a trios in print.  He dug through his strewn reference books for a Collegiate Dictionary.  He had used it for the foundation of his fortress.  The man was careful to lay its closed spine faced out, feeling that the word collegiate fit nicely into his cover.  As he slipped it out, the imitation leather binding brushed the moist skin of a tomato.  He franticly flipped to the I’s disregarding his tabled totem.

  There they were, authenticated.  The shattered skeptic turned back to the tilting tower of cheesy, mayonnaisey meat, in existential crisis.  Suddenly, in a mystical vision, he saw that the sandwich needed something more.  Why not remove the spaces?  WHYNOTREMOVEALLTHESPACES!?!  Wasn’t that the mysterious joy of pocket sandwiches?  The pleasure he received by pocketing was not just its convenience or its secrecy; what drove him to love was its smooshedness.

He lifted the huge dictionary high above his combed-over head and climbed up onto the corduroy cushioned seat. He wore the light fixture now like an upside down funnel hat.  A primal scream shook dust from his hat.  With the force of a rioter slinging rocks at the system, his naked fingers brought the entire English language down onto his beef on rye.

When the librarian tackled him, a tear tinged with mayonnaise ran down his check.  A tear of joy.  Spaceless joy.