Ricky and his Cummerbund
A lot is riding on this cummerbund thinks Ricky.
This is a life or death cummerbund.
A War or Peace cummerbund.
A cummerbund of epic significance.
If not for this cummerbund whole universes would cease to exist.
When one imagines a world without this particular cummerbund, Ricky postulates, all would be meaningless.
It is all for not without this cummerbund.
Joyless cummerbundless nothingness.
Blessed are the those whose bunds are cummered for they shall inherit the earth.
Woe to all uncummered bunds for they have received their reward in full.
Ricky adjusts his corsage and rings the doorbell.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
This Little Piggy Had Roast Beef
This Little Piggy Had Roast Beef
First of all I did not just have Roast Beef
I lovingly prepared a succulent rump roast
They always leave that part out
Secondly I did not have just
Roast Beef
There were mashed potatoes and gravy
Corn, Homemade Dinner Rolls. Did they tell you that?
Also I did have Roast Beef justly.
Free range, pasture feed, ethically slaughtered
I have friends who are Halal.
The point is there is more to the story
Little Piggy has roast beef is only a headline
Do your research.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Busy in a Burger King Bathroom
Busy in a Burger King Bathroom
Not enough hours in the day.
I tell myself
While restocking toilet paper
So much to do
So little time
Sweeping
Mopping
Air Freshener Re-Freshening
I am only one man.
Though I toil day in and day out
Paper towels cannot stack themselves .
When Nature calls
Nature does not shape the urinal cakes
Into aesthetically pleasing spheroids.
I do.
My watch tells me I should already be
Soap dispenser respenseing
But the hole in the drywall
Demands my attention dammit.
Whose hooliganism is responsible for this?
I suspect Eddie
Of the stall door fame.
Graffiti being the gateway drug and
Wall-Punching the Heroin
Of restroom vandalism.
No time for blame
The soap needs me.
After that there is the
Wiping
The scrubbing
The mirror needs a squeegee
Who am I kidding
The whole effing room needs a squeegee.
The trash can is bagless.
Who is stealing the trash bags?
Eddie.
Must push mysterious puddle
Toward floor drain.
Read the sign
I scream at the elderly gentleman in a windbreaker
Come back later
Can't you see
I'm busy.
Not enough hours in the day.
I tell myself
While restocking toilet paper
So much to do
So little time
Sweeping
Mopping
Air Freshener Re-Freshening
I am only one man.
Though I toil day in and day out
Paper towels cannot stack themselves .
When Nature calls
Nature does not shape the urinal cakes
Into aesthetically pleasing spheroids.
I do.
My watch tells me I should already be
Soap dispenser respenseing
But the hole in the drywall
Demands my attention dammit.
Whose hooliganism is responsible for this?
I suspect Eddie
Of the stall door fame.
Graffiti being the gateway drug and
Wall-Punching the Heroin
Of restroom vandalism.
No time for blame
The soap needs me.
After that there is the
Wiping
The scrubbing
The mirror needs a squeegee
Who am I kidding
The whole effing room needs a squeegee.
The trash can is bagless.
Who is stealing the trash bags?
Eddie.
Must push mysterious puddle
Toward floor drain.
Read the sign
I scream at the elderly gentleman in a windbreaker
Come back later
Can't you see
I'm busy.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Special Occasions
Although he smelled old
Barry did not feel old
Not tonight anyway
For tonight was a night for Halloween pants
As he brushed his teeth
Barry imagined each pasty white leg
Slipping into their black holes
Emerging triumphantly from his Halloween pants
He took his teeth from their brush cup
And put them into his young feeling mouth
Barry tucked his undershirt into his underwear
And wondered which was truly to be under what
As He stood in front of his wardrobe
Barry began crying
He smiled a porcelain smile
Tears of joy at the thought of his Halloween pants
Inside the door were his regulars
Brown woolen nondescript slacks
He wanted to punch them.
They were trash compared to his Halloween pants
Barry reached behind his thin cotton shirts
To a box marked “Special Occasions”
Before removing the lid he took a deep breath
Pants anticipation was almost as great as pants itself
Tonight
Tonight would be different.
Barry did not feel old
Not tonight anyway
For tonight was a night for Halloween pants
As he brushed his teeth
Barry imagined each pasty white leg
Slipping into their black holes
Emerging triumphantly from his Halloween pants
He took his teeth from their brush cup
And put them into his young feeling mouth
Barry tucked his undershirt into his underwear
And wondered which was truly to be under what
As He stood in front of his wardrobe
Barry began crying
He smiled a porcelain smile
Tears of joy at the thought of his Halloween pants
Inside the door were his regulars
Brown woolen nondescript slacks
He wanted to punch them.
They were trash compared to his Halloween pants
Barry reached behind his thin cotton shirts
To a box marked “Special Occasions”
Before removing the lid he took a deep breath
Pants anticipation was almost as great as pants itself
Tonight
Tonight would be different.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Terrance the Quadriplegic Leopard: A Superhero Story
You would not expect when see him
Laying all legless and armless
That Terrance is Super Heroic
Even though he appears harmless.
His power and strength my be hidden
Behind a humble façade
But Terrance is more than a leopard
Disabled by an act of God.
If there is a child in trouble
If there is a baby at risk
He will be there to the rescue
Complete will a quick Terrance kiss
If a bad guy is causing a problem
A robber, say, robbing a bank
Terrance will swoop in and stop him
Sneak in and give him a spank
If a lion is chasing a tiger
Or a Rhino is being a bully
The Leopard will fly in between them
Solving their problems quite fully
If a bus driver drives off a bridge
With a busload of children inside
Terrance will bring enough pillows
To cushion the falling bus ride
First graders will climb out the windows
And Terrance will cuddle them all
The driver will give him a high five
And laugh off the 50 foot fall
If aliens invade our planet
And try to take everyone’s mommy
Terrance will talk to their leader
A fat guy with braces named Tommy
Through reason and wit and some hugs
Terrance will stop the mom taking
No need for alien punching
Just old-fashioned handless handshaking
Also if puppies are crying
If kittens are somewhat depressed
Terrance will stop by all cheery
And put all their sadness to rest
These are not all of his powers
Though they are all so specific
He can do so many things
‘Cause Terrance is Super Terr-ific!
Monday, September 03, 2012
Historical Napkin
A light snow was falling as Charlie Reardon left the diner and made his way down Madison Street. Sky vomit, he thought. An archangel’s dandruff. A slow motion God sneeze. Not quite.
He took out his phone and acted more important than he was.
A tiny alien invasion. An Aryan alien invasion. Alliteration is always an improvement, he noted to himself with the confidence of the fully bearded, much better.
Charlie did not write it on a napkin. He thought about going back for a napkin from the diner, but he was confident in his memory. He knew he could remember such a good sentence. Such a well made sentence. He did not remember which was right grammatically. A perfect phrase. With this change of thought he corrected and congratulated simultaneously.
Professor Reardon liked Madison. The street had a gentrified air. Thoughtfully dirty white people and hearty smelling ethnics. Stores that sold things he never bought soothed Charlie. The diner did not have too many old people. He thought that that was probably ironic. Maybe paradoxical. Both.
His satchel was open just enough that the top his novel was visible but closed just enough to protect it from the elements. He knew it would impress the lip ringed girl who held the sign on the corner. She read, he thought.
An alien Aryan Invasion was wetting his mustache.
It occurred to him that if he were to write it on a napkin it might be worth something someday. Someday soon. He could put the napkin haphazardly on his desk. Or should he file it. He would file it so that a museum would have an easier time locating it.
He turned around like a Beefeater, toward the diner and bumped into an ethnic. She dropped her phone onto the supremacist spaceships on the sidewalk. He thought about apologizing in her native tongue as a gesture of cultural respect. She was gone before he had a chance to. It was kind of him to think of that though, he thought.
It had to be a napkin from the diner so that the biographer would know that the idea had happened at breakfast. Ironic him eating there and not being old, they would think. He rushed now intent on documenting history. The revisionism inherent in the act appalled him not at all. The winners craft it, he quipped. He did not think to himself what he had won at, only that he belonged in their circle.
The waitress was surprised to see his beard again. He pushed his hand deep into the dispenser and thought about being watched euphemistically. The waitress was not watching. It was empty and he thought about that symbolism.
Charlie asked after a napkin and the hostess handed him one from an open brown bag on her pulpit. The second wave of racist attackers from space slammed into the front window melting immediately.
The napkin was blank and brown. Ethnic. It did not smell.
How would the documentarian arrive at the place where the idea for that well made wordplay famously came to him while he ate waffles, if there was not a logo on the napkin? It could be from any number of places without paradox.
Charlie did not like this. He left the napkin and the sentence and went back into the light snow, late for class.
He took out his phone and acted more important than he was.
A tiny alien invasion. An Aryan alien invasion. Alliteration is always an improvement, he noted to himself with the confidence of the fully bearded, much better.
Charlie did not write it on a napkin. He thought about going back for a napkin from the diner, but he was confident in his memory. He knew he could remember such a good sentence. Such a well made sentence. He did not remember which was right grammatically. A perfect phrase. With this change of thought he corrected and congratulated simultaneously.
Professor Reardon liked Madison. The street had a gentrified air. Thoughtfully dirty white people and hearty smelling ethnics. Stores that sold things he never bought soothed Charlie. The diner did not have too many old people. He thought that that was probably ironic. Maybe paradoxical. Both.
His satchel was open just enough that the top his novel was visible but closed just enough to protect it from the elements. He knew it would impress the lip ringed girl who held the sign on the corner. She read, he thought.
An alien Aryan Invasion was wetting his mustache.
It occurred to him that if he were to write it on a napkin it might be worth something someday. Someday soon. He could put the napkin haphazardly on his desk. Or should he file it. He would file it so that a museum would have an easier time locating it.
He turned around like a Beefeater, toward the diner and bumped into an ethnic. She dropped her phone onto the supremacist spaceships on the sidewalk. He thought about apologizing in her native tongue as a gesture of cultural respect. She was gone before he had a chance to. It was kind of him to think of that though, he thought.
It had to be a napkin from the diner so that the biographer would know that the idea had happened at breakfast. Ironic him eating there and not being old, they would think. He rushed now intent on documenting history. The revisionism inherent in the act appalled him not at all. The winners craft it, he quipped. He did not think to himself what he had won at, only that he belonged in their circle.
The waitress was surprised to see his beard again. He pushed his hand deep into the dispenser and thought about being watched euphemistically. The waitress was not watching. It was empty and he thought about that symbolism.
Charlie asked after a napkin and the hostess handed him one from an open brown bag on her pulpit. The second wave of racist attackers from space slammed into the front window melting immediately.
The napkin was blank and brown. Ethnic. It did not smell.
How would the documentarian arrive at the place where the idea for that well made wordplay famously came to him while he ate waffles, if there was not a logo on the napkin? It could be from any number of places without paradox.
Charlie did not like this. He left the napkin and the sentence and went back into the light snow, late for class.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
The System We Fought: In commemoration of Greg turning 30
Too small for our pants pockets
Too big in our brains
Wrecking the standard American Baptist conventions
We rolled down hills.
Resisting normalcy together
As if it were a novel endeavor
Because who has time to know where one is coming from
While jumping on trampolines.
We counted ourselves better
Than those who did not roll
And rock out to The Fundamental Elements of Southtown;
An innocent pride of youth.
The art of insult perfected at lunch
Hooty hoo’s is the hallways yet
Always seeing each other at the pole.
Redeeming our irreverence by holding hands
An outside observer reflecting on our systemic war
Might notice its shortcomings.
But wide-eyed, while there was a battle going on
We fought, and for this I am still proud.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Sweet Potato Sheep Sack
In my sack of sweet potatoes I often keep a sheep.
The magma from volcanoes consumes me during sleep
A cappella madness droning out the sadness
The fourth of every February death will take a leap.
Frog inside my crevice keeps away the flies
A skeleton Rebellion will overthrow the rise
Of Lithuania - when feral packs of paupers,
Went militantly boning like a seamstress hiding thigh.
Will be done almighty here on earth as is elsewhere?
The jungles of Montana; no good can come from there!
Ticker tape for naked apes appeasing one another
Until the Heart of Darkness will be stinted with a chair.
Men will battle, camouflaged, for things that rarely matter
Diligently wiping off the raining pitter patter
Window pane and entertain and explain it all against
The backdrop of the doorstep moussed with bloody batter.
Up into the atmosphere the errant satellite
Pokes Orion open in his orifice of the night
Sending shadows stiltedly into the cave of Earth
Covering the evil like a fresh potato blight
Which brings me back to sheep in sacks;
Understandably.
The magma from volcanoes consumes me during sleep
A cappella madness droning out the sadness
The fourth of every February death will take a leap.
Frog inside my crevice keeps away the flies
A skeleton Rebellion will overthrow the rise
Of Lithuania - when feral packs of paupers,
Went militantly boning like a seamstress hiding thigh.
Will be done almighty here on earth as is elsewhere?
The jungles of Montana; no good can come from there!
Ticker tape for naked apes appeasing one another
Until the Heart of Darkness will be stinted with a chair.
Men will battle, camouflaged, for things that rarely matter
Diligently wiping off the raining pitter patter
Window pane and entertain and explain it all against
The backdrop of the doorstep moussed with bloody batter.
Up into the atmosphere the errant satellite
Pokes Orion open in his orifice of the night
Sending shadows stiltedly into the cave of Earth
Covering the evil like a fresh potato blight
Which brings me back to sheep in sacks;
Understandably.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Bad Omen Snowmen
Bad Omen Snowmen
I know Snowmen are Satanic
Crooked carrot noses
Stick hands
Beady black eyes
They hide their Devil horns
Under their Abe Lincoln hats
Across the street one stares at me
Plotting
I know he will bring a legion of his demon buddies
And make a Pentagram of snowballs
On my driveway.
Last year I preemptively protected myself
With a flamethrower
Now the neighbor kid has a restraining order
So I sit in my screened in porch
Watching
I know that the priest who was in line at the bank
Disagrees with my theology
So I disagreed with his face
Hard. With my fist.
Later I fell asleep in my adirondack chair
When I woke up the number of the beast
Was frosted on my window
There is only one suspect.
I know that everyone thinks I am crazy
But they are wrong
Beelzebub is crazy
Rolling up snow shaped people
That is the crazy
Not letting a Veteran of America's Foreign Wars
Use his own mother f---ing flamethrower
From his own mother f---ing screened in porch
That is crazy
I know Snowmen are Satanic
Crooked carrot noses
Stick hands
Beady black eyes
They hide their Devil horns
Under their Abe Lincoln hats
Across the street one stares at me
Plotting
I know he will bring a legion of his demon buddies
And make a Pentagram of snowballs
On my driveway.
Last year I preemptively protected myself
With a flamethrower
Now the neighbor kid has a restraining order
So I sit in my screened in porch
Watching
I know that the priest who was in line at the bank
Disagrees with my theology
So I disagreed with his face
Hard. With my fist.
Later I fell asleep in my adirondack chair
When I woke up the number of the beast
Was frosted on my window
There is only one suspect.
I know that everyone thinks I am crazy
But they are wrong
Beelzebub is crazy
Rolling up snow shaped people
That is the crazy
Not letting a Veteran of America's Foreign Wars
Use his own mother f---ing flamethrower
From his own mother f---ing screened in porch
That is crazy
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Royals Authority Story Contest
Today I won a writing contest over at Royals Authority.
A Royal HolidayThere is a holiday that is much more sacred to me than the one America uses to buy ties for the people they disappoint. On this day each spring there is a solstice inside my soul that summons forth the summer. That highest of holy days is none other than Royals Opening Day.
As a nerdy non-athlete who made excel spreadsheets containing the batting averages of others, I had very little time to devote to actually playing baseball. Even watching baseball was rare because cable was for rich people and we were off brand cereal folk. I was a preteen anachronism, a kid growing up in the early nineties thinking that Baseball was only to be listened to. My secret lullaby each night was Denny Mathews and Fred White (along with producer/engineer Don Free), but beyond my imagination I hardly ever saw the game.
Read the whole Essay here
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
