We ate Chinese

We ate Chinese
On that Christmas day
Mom was to tired to cook
Dad was to drunk to care
I had the sweet and sour shrimp
With an egg roll
We sat there in silence
In the empty restaurant
Mom and dad weren’t fighting
My sister wasn’t bitching
Inwardly I smiled
As I stabbed a battered shrimp with my chopstick
It may not seem like much
But I had just received the gift that I always wished for

Used Car

She was blue
Little
Fast
My four on the floor
Chariot of doom
With that fine European styling
That would make all other turn
Stare
And say
What a boxy piece of crap
But that little four banger could move
When prodded a bit
Prodded I did
Taking tight turns
Screaming down the highway
Hot rodding that car
Into oblivion
Enjoying the good times
And the bad
I miss her
My blue, little, fast
VW Fox

Bill Hicks and Your Heart

Standard Oil

I’ve been afraid of putting air in the tires ever since I saw a tractor tire blow up and throw Newt’s father over a Standard Oil sign. But here I was, the old station wagon had gotten a flat. I had changed the flat with a spare on the side of the highway in the blistering heat. The twins started bickering again once the car had started moving again. Adding to the cacophony of noise was my wife scolding me about taking better care of the car and the family. It was all my fault that our vacation was ruined before it even started.

Concentrating on the road ahead I tuned out my family and kept on driving. In the shimmering distance I could make out a gas station. Finally a break from it all! With a squeak the car came to a halt next to the air pump. The twins and my wife dashed into the air conditioned general store before I had the trunk open. I wheeled the tire to the pump and put the hose to it. Air rushed into its new rubberized home as I felt something ominous behind me. Slowly I turned to see a Standard Oil sign…

Seasonal Blahsphemy Syndrome (S-BS)

The Customer Service Referral Specialist transferred me to the Coordinating Member Representative's Transcontinental Telecommunication Device. I had planned and prepared well, and was ready for the Propositive Networking Conference Event, and what could spring. We were team positive rather than opponent negative, and he was Goal-Oriented and ran the Business Cooperative Association nicely. His Vocal Chord Output was Well-Versed Affirmitive Reinforcement, and the Customer Home Base Service Board Stock Holders thought this to be tres fabulous. So, I grabbed my Proficient Inking Device, and had a jolly go-go. The paper held up quite well as I took Educationally Informed, Knowledgeably Based jottings, as he spoke. Things were going positively-warm, like sunny summer. They should've, as the night before I had preprayed to the Spiritual Love Savior. However, fall fell. I spilled Mountain Grown Coffee Java all over my Executive Pro Plus Threads. Second-degree, with minor dermal damage it was. In doing so, I had Negatively-Affected his Positive Mantra Position with line and staff. We had a wintrily exchange of emotions like jagged ice. And then I was fired and burned as Support Staff Specialist Supervisor.

The Coffee Shop

the coffee shop
it is a forbidden pleasure
to go and hang out
only the elite belong
the professor
his students
the free thinking left
or so the teenager things
dressed all in black
wearing a beret
sitting in the corner
trying to fit in
while sipping at a
blueberry smoothie

Art Show

I can’t do it. They all hate my stuff. I can’t go out there.

They love it. Go out there and talk to them.

It’s wrong, all wrong. My crap doesn’t belong here. I don’t belong here.

Yes you do.

This place is so stuck up. Those stiff suits know that I am just a no talent hack.

You are good. You know what you are doing.

My work doesn’t belong here. This is a Museum. Only “real” art gets put into places like this.

Do you remember when that lady came to look at your work?

Yeah…

What did she say?

She said that she “had” to take one piece for the show.

And?

She could only take one, but she wanted to take three.

She could see your talent. She knew your work belongs here. She broke the rules for it. Now get out there and prove that she was not wrong.

I suppose…

The Other Side of Night

The morning, another wake-up
Envisioned as one of those
Movie montages with rock music
And a girl with a starboard chest
To spend the rest of your life with
She's a fighter, and that's
The best we've got
But no one will ever die
I'll take you from yours
If you take me from mine
We're upstairs with hot coffee standing by
Waking up is as falling asleep
Now start over

Revolutionary Moon

These questions need to be asked
And in due turn an answer would be nice
Meanwhile--it's supper, and shall we
Suppose with our ice tea that that should suffice

And on account of the stars and moon above
The sightly seasons spin as does the earth
And try do we to predict the weather like a fine fit glove
But no we can't, no more, no less--than our screaming birth

Thus, are sure of just a few little things

Such as the green grass and the buzz of pesky house flies

And with age and with that the wrinkle it so quickly brings

But on account of surprise, maybe rationalize and philosophize

However, what else should or could we do...?
Another morning with corn flakes, newspaper and spoon
Another place or time, a radical assault...a coup
Today--the earth crashed into the revolutionary moon!

Transcontinental

You were the best
Damn underwater basket weaver
In the whole desert,
But you took with the camels
And traversed coral caverns
Leaving aqua cacti in sandy wake

Embroidered upon your last sagebrush basket
"Whosoever, no one lives forever"
Amongst trails and tales of blowing desert sand,
It couldn't have been accidental
As watermark ocean waves,
You were transcontinental

Martin & the Mob (of Cliches)

This needs no introduction, for it was all in a day's work, and all things being equal, Martin bit off more than he could chew. It was the moment of truth and the calm before the storm when he told the powers that be, he may be ready to throw in the towel and venture onward.He didn't beat around the bush, or beat a dead horse, but seemed to hit the nail right on the head. He said he understood that the early bird gets the worm, and to the victor the spoils. However, lately bringin' home the bacon in the final analysis seemed a wolf in sheep's clothing. His bosses, the powers that be, said that in no uncertain terms was Martin not to mind his p's and q's. They could proceed by taking it by ear. Then they spoke of Martin's possible facing of the music and a fate worse than death. But he had remained cool as a cucumber and asked if he 'could just get out.' He would keep a low profile. In other words, he didn't want to be in the same boat or between the devil and the deep blue sea.Well, this was easier said than done. The bosses had skeletons in the closet and had to separate the sheep from the goats. They said there was no turnin' over any new leaves and that dear old Martin would bite the bullet and get dead as a door nail. However, Martin was as strong as an ox and as stubborn as a mule. It fell on deaf ears. So it be said, he made no bones about taking a rain check, and as quick as lightning made his way to unchartered seas. Just, that's the way it had to be.

As luck would have it, on the lam he was on the ball. By leaps and bounds he had kept the wool over their eyes. Martin was on the beach and next to his girlfriend, who was fresh as a daisy and free as a bird. As she grabbed her margarita she said, "Martin, you're so true blue." A match made in heaven. So this makes ends meet, and a long story short.

Jumping Buildings

The days of jumping buildings
And colliding and falling into crevasses...

Know now this was coming to a close
No more arbitrary swims or swan-dives
Away with capes, and back again to regular clothes
White-powder lies and sullen half-lives
Red-lights and parking meters
Out of touch the place had new leaders
Really, they did the best they could
Back again, be sometime they would

Idaho

In Idaho
It's fairly simple
There are mountains
Near sky horizons
My dear wife and I
Have a potato farm nearby,
A plow and other tools

Today it rained
We stayed inside
Warm under downy cover
And played some Checkers
Then had dinner
This can be work though
Love and Potato

Last Chance for a Slow Dance

Somehow with you here, and
These taps and twists,
Tips and twirls, a
Mending melting movement collective
Rectifies a dark sky,
Just outside,
A day of coming atom gloom

Let’s take this,
For time is short...
Girl, just like your skirt
For a day outside,
Is coming dark and doom
Our last chance,
For a slow dance
Close...rr…k?...BOOM!!!!

Long Distance Runner

Of green flag days
Long distance runner off
Worn running shoes
Old, Haggard and abused
Functional still
One foot,
Past the other?
He went best

Sad to say,
But the soles,
Such to see,
Had many holes,
Long distance runner
Though swift and fine,
Had no sight of a
Finish line

(The race was with himself)