Monthly Archives: March 2015

Reality TV

Paultry poultry,

Culprit cuddles,

The clasping asps,

And more;

With all these titles

Floating around,

We still get “My 600-pound life.”

What for?

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Cubism

I complained about my cubicle,

Saying it was too small,

And since it was rectangular

Was not a cube at all.

Now I’m living in a box

In back alley, USA.

I guess complaining didn’t help,

But my box is a cube, so yay?

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Superheroic Privilege

Flying to a new address

When I hear a stranger in distress.

Oh wait, I recognize that guy!

Let’s save a different passerby…

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Wet on Earth?

My garden was wilting

Despite all my silting.

I fert’lized my petunias

The best I was able.

But they still needed water

As the weather got hotter,

And I needed the water

For my guests at the table.

I promised my flowers

The sky would bring showers,

But the weather betrayed me,

And rain it did not.

So I knelt o’er my buds

And sobbed, making muds.

I never expected

That on film this was caught.

I next day I found

In HD and with sound

That my gardening venture

Had three million hits.

I became very wealthy

And my flowers got healthy

‘Cause now I bought water

And new fertilizing shits.

And when I am dead

With dirt o’er my head

And people shed tears

On top of my grave,

I hope they play that vid

Of when I was a kid

And could not work a hose.

Then they’d have a rave.

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Heck’s Angels

Have you heard the low thrum

Of a dozen mopeds

Cresting the rise of a hill?

The carry an air

Of environmental concern,

And always pay their bill.

The drink microbrews,

Read the Huffington post,

And ride to protest warming weather.

They want to be safe,

But they won’t kill a cow,

So instead they’re decked out in fruit leather.

They’ve occupied Wall Street

And conquered small towns.

They adopted Obamacare early.

They wear handmade bling

And fair trade hemp socks

And, only on Facebook, act surly.

And then with a puff

Of carbon-free smoke

They pedal away once again.

They’re Al Gore’s private army,

The Heck’s Angels gang,

Inclusive of GBT men.

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Strategy Meeting

I watch my life go by

In factors of sixty.

That little rotating stick,

The flashing colon,

The unending count

Of passing seconds.

No matter how angry the birds,

How many temples I fail to escape,

Or how many aces lay buried

Beneath twos of their own suit,

The hand will not speed up.

My hopes, and my battery, are dead.

When will this meeting end?

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Anonymous Donor

I have a fountain on my porch.

It’s one I never bought.

I have a fountain in my truck

That, on the road, I caught.

I’ve got twelve fountains all in all.

New ones turn up now and then.

I keep them safe in my back yard,

Within my fountain pen.

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