Monthly Archives: June 2018

Party animals

At people’s parties
i go out for air
not snobbish
just at a loss, if you please,
for clever conversation
my two cents has not risen
with the inflation rate
You’re Too Quiet
i am told
Smile more
i know…i bring it on myself
sitting in some dim corner
sipping something
i am the subject of queer backward glances
and occasional snorts of derision

on freer days
away from forced bonhomie,
i may be, say, in a waiting room.
no one speaks
they are bent on their devices
or they are too old and sad and want to go home.
i remember I’m Too Quiet,
so i speak to a woman who sits alone.
i remark about the long wait.
then, i am sorry, i have disturbed her.
she does not acknowledge.
i am mortified.
i wonder what she is like
at parties.
from the room’s far end,
another has seen
this failed exchange.
she actually sees me,
smiles,
shakes her head.
and,
i feel better now.

The left handed Artist

the happenstance of noises
is interpreted as voices
they are baleful, malevolent, or wise
fraught with contradiction
but uttered with conviction
as senseless as senility’s surmise

within this pool of sadness
and the fear of creeping madness
(a blackened bloom that’s coming to the fore)
the consciousness is running
from the feral beast so cunning
while trying to lock the fifth and final door

and there! it’s done so proudly
and the door’s been slammed so loudly
and the voices and the visions are deterred
now, it’s time for more creations
for poetic innovations
but the inspiration utters not a word

so The Artist sits and wonders
what sort of mindless blunders
he has made, and why his symphonies are gone
now, perhaps it was the madness
and the overwhelming sadness
that once had given rarity of song.

Working class heroes

A pompous little braggart

A Witch of Wiccan ways

A Scotsman named McTaggart

(For only seven days)

A thieving set of sisters

A sleeper on the job

A pair of draft resisters

A Veteran (name of Bob)

A deaf mute who was handy

We trained him very well

A simple guy named Andy

(He gave the others Hell)

A wizened Lithuanian

(My very best of friends)

An honourable Ukrainian

Who met his end of ends

A boss who had a fat cigar

And always wore a suit

The guy who drove a pizza car

And made a lotta loot

Supervisors on the floor

Whose jobs went to their heads

And one who cared a little more

And trained us well instead

A manager like Captain Queeg

Who watched the small details

While grander things and needy deeds

Above his head would sail

A quiet girl (Armenian)

We hired as a clerk

The work she did was menial

The coffee she would perk

The worth she had was very clear

And better jobs she got

”Twas noted that she had no peer

And limits had she not

A union boss named Thomas

A biker dude was he

If crossed, he’d make a promise

Afraid, you’d better be

At last, there was a family man

His Christian name was Mark

His wife and kids had brought their van

To get him, after dark

But home they didn’t reach that night

They met a different fate

A drunken driver killed their light

And now they are but Late.

Something that bothers me.

We’ve been “friends” for years.
I worked with you for a decade.
During that time, we had an artistic association as well.
My daughter joined us on occasion with our musical efforts.
I was blind to it at first, but no more.
Your friendly “hello beautiful” remarks at first seemed just that.
Then, it was arms around her shoulder, and, one time, when a little drunk,
you called her a “sexy thing”.
We were in a group at a bar the other night.
You walked up behind her and gave her a neck massage.
She has not, so far, seemed upset or bothered by these things,
just passing them off as “you being you”.
So, I am talking to her to ask her feelings.
If she will not make it clear to you that this is inappropriate,
then I will.
Either way, we are at an end,
my friend.
If you could see me now, you would see murder in my eyes.

Oracle


Being of the foolish persuasion, I consulted
the Great Oracle Of God’s Lexicon and Encyclopaedia.
And, with tickling anticipation, I typed in my name.
Seven short letters, three space four.
I’m Feeling Lucky.  Bingo.
There’s my smilin’ face.
Hey, wait just a minute.
There’s no webcam on this dusty old desktop.
Where’d you get that picture, Goo Goo Google?
Wait just another cotton pickin’ minute.
There’s my bag of chips and my Tuesday shirt.
I’m lookin’ perplexed.
What the?

The picture winks.
Woah.  Shouldn’t have had those brownies at that party last night.

There’s a link to click on.
It’s a .PDF file
Lee.Org.Net.Com.CLICK HERE, you boob.

It loads in a flash, ’cause I just got the handy dandy
ultimate high speed money funneling Internet.

In stylistic bold, the heading says
THESE ARE THE DAYS OF YOUR LIFE
In the upper right,
page one of 24,520

Imagine my surprise.
Haha (nervous laugh).
Must be a mistake, eh?
CHAPTER ONE- BABY DAZE

I peruse in a flurry,
then scroll in a greater flurry.
Random stops, then Holy Cow.
These are not just events.
They are told
in the penmanship of my mind.

Like a lazy reader
who wants to skip to the climax,
I go to page 24,520.
The last paragraph shows me typing this,
and now I look even more perplexed.
What’s the significance of this number?

In the bottom right corner of the screen
guess what?  There’s another little link.
FOR FURTHER CHAPTERS, CLICK HERE.
Of course, I do.  Who wouldn’t?
It wants my credit card, bank info, every password I have ever thought up.
By this time, I am sucked in but good and I don’t care.
There you go, googly googly.

But the joke was on me.
THESE ARE NOT YET AVAILABLE.
THERE ARE APPROXIMATELY 4,675 PAGES IN THIS FILE.
ONE FOR EACH DAY OF YOUR REMAINING TIME.

Good.  Now I can make plans.

Long Ride Home

I love this very feeling poem by MK Vecchitto.

mkvecchitto's avatarWriting and Reflections

20180603_131225.jpg

Some people long for blooming darkness
velvet blackness where the lonely seek
cover with the eyes of a discarded doll
even as spirits commune
to hear each teardrop
as it falls

Some people long for endless accolades
syrupy sweetness encased in lyrics that lie
to invent personas which claim there is more
than meets the eye
even as spirits commune
to compose writings that
speak the truth

Some people long for a day that is enough
a long ride home just to enjoy the view
a walk in the sunshine to celebrate sacred earth
refusing to move from pillar to post without intention
recusing the dictates of societal norms
to linger on moments that matter
even as spirits commune
to sing songs
of joy

photo: mine
prompts: Go Dog Go Cafe, The Sunday Whirl, Lyric Ideas, #DarkLines

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Itself

Kid Little thought toys would do it.
At fifteen, a Bad Influence showed him Playboy.
He thought that would do it.
He turned 21 on the day the drinking age changed to 19.
He thought booze would do it.
It only made him sick.
He saw guys with pickup trucks full of empties,
belligerent in line, smelling of swill.
An ill-placed road sign, just before the beer store,
said Dead End.
Then his friends, even his brother,
became the Jokers, the Smokers, the midnight Tokers.
He went along. He thought that might do it.
Until the day he found himself under a spreading chestnut tree,
out of his wits.
To the Church he looked, and thought
This Must Do It. But.
Too many false prophets and hypocrites there were.
On this sunset day, this time of now,
the old man sways, crestfallen, in his chestnut rocker.
Marking time.
This will do it.