You climb without hands
For hundreds of feet,
With your body strapped into
A hard plastic seat.
Then your car hits the peak
And you look down the slope,
The ground and a crowd
And the loss of all hope.
And with your heart beating
Like domestic abuse
You rush down the slope,
Through the drops and corkscrews.
Forty five seconds later
The ride is all done,
And you smile like a psycho
Wondering “Why was that fun?”
Filed under Poems
Her face was almost holy,
But in truth was kind of crass
Like a baseball in a church
Hit through a window of stained glass.
Her body was like a lion,
Kind of noble, but too hairy,
And her name was like a melody
That sounded just like “Jerry.”
And as we flirted in the bed
Of her slate grey Chevy truck
Her laugh closely resembled
A mixed chihuahua and a duck.
And I drew a terrible conclusion
As sparks flew through the truck.
Jerry wasn’t a her at all,
And I’d run out of luck.
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Yellow tape around the mound
That used to be a house.
Not a creature stirs there anymore,
Not even my pet mouse.
I know it was an accident,
But it must not happen anymore.
I move to outlaw chimney climbing.
Santa will have to use the door.
Early Monday morning
And the sun has yet to rise.
My alarm clock is screaming
But I won’t open my eyes.
There are still many hours
Of sleep to be enjoyed,
So I don’t get up on Monday.
(That’s prob’ly why I’m unemployed).
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‘Twas a fine midwinter rodeo
And we were thankful it hadn’t snowed.
We were nearly done, the steers had run,
And the bulls had all been rode.
But the final event was canceled,
And it’s a funny reason why:
Turns out that all the broncos choked,
When a blue/green bird flew by.
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A friendly bit of hazing,
That’s all it really was.
No need to tell outsiders.
No need to call the fuzz.
But halfway down the mountain
I realized the hoax,
And as I died on the spiky rocks below
I swore they’d pay for their jokes.
I may not get a spot in heaven,
Might even go down below,
But revenge is a dish best served cold
And my body’s cold as snow.
I plan on haunting those nu phi guys
And filling their lives with frights,
And I’m writing all this with the hopes
That I can sell the movie rights.
Filed under Poems
“Liar, liar, pants on fire”
Was a taunt I often heard
From kids at school, and parents too
And even a parrot bird.*
So I thought I’d test the theory,
So I lied for 30 days.
Not once in that deceitful month
Did my pants catch in a blaze.
So I look now at the irony
Of a saying people try
To use to discourage dishonesty
Is, in itself, a lie.
Or maybe I’m overthinking again.
* This is a lie. I have never heard a parrot say “liar, liar, pants on fire.”
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As I was walking on the tundra
I came upon a moose.
I wanted to shoot it with my gundra
‘Til I saw it was wearing shoes.
So as it turned, a log I hid undera,
Hoping to avoid its mighty gaze.
Its footsteps were as loud as thundera,
But it didn’t see me through the haze.
I hid until the setting sundra
Passed behind the frozen ground.
I went home quickly. I was donedra,
And I hoped the shoe moose wasn’t around.
I remember that trip and all the fundra
I had on that permafrost.
And one day, back I’m sure to rundra
To bag the moose I lost.
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Her smile was wide as a toothpick
And her face glowed like a new moon
When she opened my birthday gift
And discovered I’d given her a spoon.
Her words were clean as a dumpster,
Thanking me like a wrecking ball.
For the next few weeks we had sex like mushrooms,
By which I mean no sex at all.
But I think she still loves me regardless
And I’m still in love with my wife.
But both of us are happy as clams that
I chose not to buy her a knife.
Filed under Poems
