He waits for me, each night,
of late,
in the cottony caves ‘twixt longer dreams.
The script:
I’ll be born once more from ectoplasm,
and flutter down on nightwings,
like settling leaves in the cease of the breeze.
He knows I come.
That I can’t stay away.
But I always wish to startle him,
so I slide,
a form of translucent grey,
across his stalactite ceiling.
But he smells me
and smiles a slow smile.
Bovine, feline, canine by turns.
In the voice of The Rock Biter, he says
PULL UP A CHAIR.
Of what form will he be tonight?
Sometimes, we play the name game.
Threenight ago, he was ratlike, but stood erect.
In his black top hat, he spoke sneering syllables,
saying he had eaten five pies and I was to guess his name.
His scaly tail twitched and whipped,
and his sharp yellow teeth champed at the bit
until I said
nimmy nimmy nit not, your name is Tom Tit-Tot.
His eyes grew wide and bloodshot,
and he reached forth with chickenfoot hands.
Screeching in the rat language, he ran about,
like a balloon let go and blubbering out its air.
And impaled himself upon a stalagmite.
I went home.
Just last night, he was all in white feathers,
and was duck-billed.
He wore a blue vest with brass buttons,
and had a sailor’s cap.
I said Where are your pants, Donald?
Whereupon he let out a loud quaaaack,
and pounded on the table.
Whereupon all things bright and beautiful winked out.
And tonight?
Ah yes, tonight.
I must tell you this, writing as it is, from the Seventh Circle.
Tonight, I parachuted as usual, down from his spiny ceiling.
All is damp dripping darkness,
but, in a far corner, there is a golden light.
I hear a rhythmic squeaking, and someone hums along with it.
There sits a small creature, sitting on a stool beside a spinning wheel.
Piles of gold surround him.
PULL UP A CHAIR! it says.
We’ve much to discuss!
Topics of import, like
is tea better than coffee?
is an apple better than an orange?
what happens to a bubble if it is left to float undisturbed?
if you collect the powder from a moth’s wings,
can you be made to fly?
We mull it over.
Prevaricate.
Debate.
But, it is tiring, discussing such worldly things.
There are no clear answers.
We begin to yawn widely, ready for the second sleep.
I say By the way, you look a little rumpled tonight, Stiltskin.
Whereupon he takes off his pointy hat, throws it at me,
and stamps with one foot on the stony floor.
Our world bursts asunder, and our feet go from under.
Into abyss we tumble, grabbing and grappling,
but all is gossamer.
Category Archives: Humor
On editing a post..
I dream of scissorhands.
In this dream, I wake.
I see shredded bedsheets.
Flying feathers.
Bulging batting from my mattress.
My wife stands by the bedside,
saucer-eyed and staring.
These new prosthetics…
She points to the front yard in black night.
Go and trim the shrubbery she says.
I go out, clanking in dangling pajamas.
I know the one she means…
It’s a twenty footer, my pride and joy.
I grew it from seed, I think.
How old am I ?
But it is unruly.
Top heavy, jutting this way and that, like a bad haircut.
I set to work with my digital glittering knives.
(Always liked the sound of scissors, close by the ear,
warm barber’s hands)
I snip and slice and nip, so nice.
What will we see, in the lights of day?
We wonders, yes we wonders.
After all, you’re keeping me in the dark.
Out of this world
My nickname’s Pygmalion
From those in the know
My interest in women
I never do show
To those I confide in
And have some affection
I am but a man
Who is seeking perfection
I pay no attention
Rejecting them all
For my birthday I got
An inflatable doll
But I’ve got a secret
That I’ll never mention
The woman I dream of
Will come from invention
I sweat and I tinker
Upstairs in the attic
Her form, it will soon be alive,
Automatic.
All silicone circuits
Endowed with a soul
Her life will have purpose
And mine will be whole
It awaits but a visit
From a Deity high
To give her emotions
And let her reply
To questions exquisite
Already have I
Composed with devotion
And love in my eyes
But, if wishes were horses
And Santa were real
My lover would speak things
I only could feel
Wish on a star
That I may and I might
See her movements so graceful
And regal, tonight
My nickname’s Pygmalion
They think I’m Australian
But they’ll never know that I’m really
The Alien.
Why I don’t pick up hitchhikers
I know. You can say these were just isolated experiences and I should not tar everyone with the same brush. But, I’m pretty impressionable, and first impressions count.
#1. I picked this guy up at the start of an 80km trip to work. Seemed okay at the start, didn’t say anything for about ten minutes, until I broke the ice by asking him where he was bound so early on a winter morning. He turned his head slowly towards me, like in the horror movies, and said he was going to a meeting of the Blue Men. That was his code name for his clandestine group of guys that were planning to invade the Houses of Parliament and hold everyone hostage with ray guns while they read their manifesto. He was serious. I dropped him off at the next stoplight.
#2. This was a fellow who worked in the same factory as did I, so I really had no excuse to shorten the trip. I didn’t know him well, so I was making small talk, when he cut me off and said he knew his family was trying to poison him. That got my attention .
I humored him and said, well, how can you be sure? He said “that’s just it, I’m not sure one hundred percent, and that’s why I went out and bought twenty mirrors the other day.” Ah Ha. What are the mirrors for? “I put them on the floor, all around my apartment, and now I will be able to see their shadows for sure”. I am not making this up.
#3. This fellow, with his little dog, I picked up in a blinding snowstorm. I mean, come on, you can’t pass anyone in that kind of situation. They got in, sat in the front seat, and said nothing. I asked where they were going. He just points straight ahead. So, I nod and keep on driving. A ways down the road, I lean over to the dog and say hey buddy, which way now? The guy must have got the drift, ’cause he hung a left with his thumb. I dropped them off at a roadside mailbox. They disappeared in the snow. Not a freaking word.
I’ve been in dire situations myself in the past, so that’s basically why I picked these guys up in the first place.
But, geez, I’m kinda getting a little old for this stuff now.
Very nice, very nice
..we live in a basement now…
some say eww, you live in the cellar?
that’s something I did when I was a teenager.
a second class citizen.
how can you stand someone living above you?
what do you do if there’s a fire up there?
you’re gonna freeze in the winter.
well….
we have birches and maples and pines that suffice.
we have seven big windows, all covered in ice.
we have babbits and birdies and chipmunks and mice,
and the latter ones think that our pantry is nice.
a fire in the corner to warm up our toes.
a sliding glass door to a garden of rose.
a barbeque smoky, so nice to the nose,
and the sky through the branches of wintery prose.
and the one that we share it with lives up the stairs.
she booms and she clatters and does what she dares.
has two skinny cats that we think are her heirs,
and their vocal renditions? well, nothing compares.
but the aerial noises we hear from above
don’t bother us greatly, ‘cuz we’re thinking of
a family that’s knit (sometimes fits like a glove)
and the missus upstairs, she is someone we love.
Very Nice. Very nice.
The burglar
Many say I wear a mask
My hands are very small
I have a kin in Notre Dame
But, surely, that’s not all
It’s cleverness I have in spades
I’ll never want for food
I well deserve your accolades
But you’ll always think me rude
I’ve clambered up a skyscraper
And walked a tightrope true
My picture’s in the newspaper
And youtube has it too
Now, there’s a few more funny things
To show you where I’m at
You’ll know me by my many rings
And Davy Crockett’s hat!
Hullo again
Awakes, he does, in the foldable bed. Swims to the surface, breaks water. Beats the living daylights out of whatever it was they gave him. Geez, maybe it’s been a long time, he thinks. The daylight smarts his eyes. There’s a vague smell of stale urine. Pupils adjust, and he sees the sea-green serenity of the room. The netted curtains on their curvy tracks. The vectored reachings of a needy houseplant. There’s an ache in his arm as he moves his hand to feel his face. That damn tape rips out some hairs and maybe a layer of skin too. Oh boy. Now, touch those bristly whiskers. They remind him of his stiff hairbrush at home. How’d he get into this state? There are two white-capped young nurses just outside his door. They chatter a mile a minute, in low tones, about some difficult patient. Down the hall? Their lilting banter stirs him, and invokes a wide smile that cracks his lower lip. Yep, it’s been a long time. Fumbling for the bed switch, up he sits. Hey Nellie Bellie! You got any chapstick? Two girlish heads turn. One drops her jaw, the other rolls her eyes heavenward. Yes….there’s going to be some devilry today.
Apparition
In the dark of your room
Something cold from the tomb
Awakes you with feelings of dread
Seems to float and to hover
Then pulls on your cover
And sidles up next to your bed
Its image is fearsome
A face without eyes
An energy making you swoon
It radiates outward
Your hair it will rise
Like you feel when you rub on a balloon
Paralysis grips you
You cannot but shout
Your face feels as if it will smother
Someone turns on the light
And, there in the bright,
Stands (in costume)
Your wee little brother.
You missed Halloween, you dope.
Vedge Bad
I do not like asparagus
That rooty shooty plant
And you won’t really care, I guess,
About this silly rant
Its stems are pulpy, woody-like.
Its tips have tiny spades.
That look for all the world, to me,
Like mini hand grenades.
I’ve tried to cook it many ways
And give it proper lovin’.
I’ve boiled and steamed and creamed and braised
And shrunk it in the oven.
My daddy used to buy it canned
And put it on his toast.
I fancied him a true gourmand
And to my friends I’d boast.
But, now that I’m a very cook
(I’ve tried each recipe)
I’ve tasted all, and by the book,
But it gives me smelly pee.
A difficult delivery
By the light of an android torch,
down a pitch black path I went.
To a dark door, unsuspecting.
Fronds brushed my face.
I slowed, and stood in doubt.
Have I the right house?
Plucking up courage
from an empty store,
I found my feet did move some more.
I follow fading flagstones,
and there, in moonlit outline,
the door.
“Moria”, I think.
I move to step into the pale pool of moonlight,
but blunder into an unseen itchy web,
face first.
Snapping its strong strands,
I see, in periphery, its maker,
in seeming pensive regard of his prize.
I tremble.
The door opens.
A dwarf-sized figure appraises me, and giggles.
“Your pizza is here”, I say.
Aremyfeetofftheground 