Poetry? Is He Kidding?

It's no joke, ladies and men.  We had company at the Pancake house, and since we pretty much never have company we spent the last two days cleaning.  After hours of entertaining (and by "entertaining" I mean being attacked by my daughters in front of said company) I am now staring at a mountain of dishes, daring each dirty plate and bowl to wash itself.  So far they haven't budged.  You win this round, dishes.

What I'm getting at is that I'm too tired to do one of my usual rant-type posts.  Since I've sworn an oath to myself (in front of a photograph of myself dressed as a judge) to post every Tuesday and Friday I have an obligation to put at least something up here.

So here's something.  Most people probably didn't know that I sometimes write poetry.  Yep.  I write it.  So now you have to read it!

I won't be offended if you laugh at it or print it out and burn it.  Just don't steal it.  Because there's secret codes hidden in each poem that cause your soul to unravel if you try to pass it off as your own.  I mean it.

Anyway, here goes...


The Egg Thinks About Thinking

Anticipation is my frequency
Purposely elongating menial business
To burn away minutes

Intolerable dispositions
Make my brain like an
egg on a hot sidewalk

Was it Churchill who said it?
I cannot remember
Save it for the educated

Trying to be alone
has become a laughable game
in this over-crowded society

The heat from those
pressed up against themselves
is distracting and embarrassing

I fear I must fail
before I can begin

I fear my jars of sunshine
will reach expiration before
they ever become useful

If you find it in your heart
to reject me
My fears will be dignified
with justification

I fear everything except absorption


Big Nothing

It comes and goes
Sneaks up
Distracts while adding
A common problem
A common denominator
Still a means for humiliation

Poisoning oneself mindlessly
Ignoring unfamiliar resolutions
Embracing the machinations
of a stumbling idea

The world remains at large
While a baby - naked and stupid
Cries for a mother
That never existed


Tangent Police

Stunningly simple pleasure
What's the give-out?
I have no straw
I have no feathers
I have no needles
I have dirt under my fingernails

A top score is numbers
A name is letters
Endless sequences
cascading across a
strange electronic consciousness

When the end comes
Where does it all go?
Does reality have a back up?

Is it futile?

To expect nothing
Surely preemptively
conquers disappointment

Or to expect everything
Offers an equal chance
at all things desirable

Then again
Everything is nothing
Or whatever...