Monthly Archives: June 2016

The Consequences of Peace

My baggage is here.

I’m safe and happy

Which means once again

These poems will be short and crappy.

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The War Goes On

They say they’ll write me,

Keep me up to date

As for my lost luggage

I anxiously wait.

But sometimes I’m weak

And I go online

To check out the status

Of that “delayed” bag of mine.

I type in my last name,

An eight digit code

And wait five painful seconds

For the website to load

Only to find

Its status unchanged.

It’s made a me a little

Completely deranged.

“Assign me a driver”

I woefully shriek,

But “”

Doesn’t hear what I speak.

That’s how I’ve been living

For most of the day

Until United Airlines

Sends that suitcase my way.

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Zero is the number

Of hours I slept

Before a 2:00 AM shuttle

To the airport today.


Zero is the number

Of friendly cute girls

In the security line

That I met on the way.


Zero is the number

Of lightning storms I missed

Flying into Houston

A half hour late


Zero is the number

Of minutes I had

To get from my landing

To my connecting flight’s gate.


Zero is the number

Of on-time flights departing

In the 40-plane lineup

That the airport had grown.


Zero is the number

That shows up in red

In the battery section

Of my cellular phone.


Zero’s the number

In military time

That my plane finally landed

At my final city.


Zero is the number

Out of one checked bag

That was at the airport

Waiting for me.


Zero is the number

Of poems technically written

By me on Tuesday

June 28.


Zero is the number

Of f**ks I give

That this hard-fought travel poem’s

Published 12 minutes late.

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No Satisfaction.

2:10 AM bus

To the airport tomorrow

Thus, thoughtless haiku.

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Am I A Monster?

I was brave. I came out of the closet

And they said “you’re a monster” to my face.

I entered a world that didn’t love me

Or those of my type, creed, or race.

I expected a celebration

But all I earned was hatred instead

So that’s why you’ll find me this evening

Just hiding under your bed.

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USA, November 2016

Roses are reds,

Violets are blue,

These are both valid points, and I’ll address them in a moment, but first…

But does anyone stop to comfort the violets in their sorrow? Even once?


You know, depression is a chemical imbalance and has many dangerous side effects. But when it becomes a part of ones identity, as it has for the violets, it transcends its mortal debilitation and becomes a blight on the very soul.

When I’m elected, I’m going to make violets purple again! And not by adding rose colored glasses, no. Not by that. Who needs all the thorns roses bring anyway? No, I dream of a garden where honest, hardworking violets can grow bigly without the radical redness of roses!

In other words, f*** you roses.

Let’s Get Pruning ™

This poem brought to you by Goldman Sachs.

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Breakups Are Hard

Oh my darling, oh my darling,

Oh my darling Clementine.

You are lost and gone forever.

On second thought, that’s just fine.

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That or Football

I’ve got a hobby that’s really cool

That makes me feel like a man.

I like staring at my roof;

I am a ceiling fan.

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Give The Dog A Bone?

My town was in the news today

For a reason that isn’t nice.

A man was hired to kill another

Amidst a field of rice.

The way he committed the murder

Showed his creativity had no lack.

His weapon was a ceramic statue.

‘Twas a knick-knack paddy whack.

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On My Own Terms (The Cat Song)

You take me into your home.

You keep me inside and play with my hair.

You call me a pretty boy

Then you punish me. Baby, give me some air!

You say “call me master.”

I am your slave now.

But I’ll live on my own terms

And soon to me you’ll bow.

You thought you’d relax in the bathroom,

Have clean furniture and a new-house smell.

You forgot me in that equation.

Now I welcome you to nine lives in Hell.

You said “call me master.”

I just said “meow.”

But I’ll live on my own terms

So who’s the master now?

Now you call me master.

You’re little more than my serf.

Now you’ll live by my terms

Or get your ass off my turf!

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