When in the Summer
Humid, hot,
You’re AC’s working…
Wait, it’s not.
You’re sweating, panting,
Hope has died,
Your thoughts have turned
To homicide…
My days are filled
With thoughts like these.
Can you believe
It’s 78 degrees?
Tag Archives: True Story
Best Wishes From Everything You’ve Ever Signed
I lay in bed one humid eve
When through the window came
A mysterious hooded figure
With neither face nor name.
He tied me to my bedframe,
Shaved my head and ate my food,
Downloaded my shopping preferences
And data about my mood.
He stole my cash and passwords
And he burned all my receipts
Then showed me banner advertisements
For Sprint and flannel sheets.
He listened to my phone calls
And sold recordings to Taiwan.
These unusual torments
Lasted all the way ’til dawn.
He changed my LinkedIn profile
And made me look inept,
Then left a calling card which said
“Read before you click Accept.”
Filed under Poems
The Kinda-Mostly-True Life of Bobby Fischer
I was a child prodigy,
A master at young age,
A Grandmaster at age seven,
A prepubescent sage.
Yet time passed by and I got old.
My skills increased as well,
Yet now that I’m a grown-up guy
I’ve lost the magic spell.
Instead of great, unique, and wise
I’m seen as “kinda lame,”
Forty years old, I’ve spent my life
Playing an old board game.
So what happened? What really changed?
Is greatness not enough?
When I was young my life was ease,
But now my life is tough?
It seems as if flying around,
Moving pawns on a board,
Winning trophies and title bouts
Is more impressive when you’re four?
Well then, screw that! I’m done with chess!
I’m moving far away
To be a scary racist hermit
And with myself I’ll play!
But now they call me back to play
A world championship game.
The cold war hinges on my success;
Such is the price of fame.
But afterwards I’m gone again
And that’s just fine with me.
My only hope’s that they will make
A movie about searching for me.
Filed under Poems
Dearest Saturday
I worked all week,
I sweated and toiled,
I broke my back,
My plans were foiled,
My heart was shattered,
My brain turned to goo
So that, Dearest Saturday,
I could make it to you.
I slaved and I slobbered.
My displeasures grew
As I sat through lectures
I already knew,
I held off angry clients,
Protected my pen
So that we, Dearest Saturday,
Could be one once again.
Metaphorical dragons
Have fallen before me,
Slain so I could assure
That you would not deplore me,
And although I am thankful
To not be deplored
Why is it, Dearest Saturday,
That I’m this freakin’ bored?
Filed under Poems
Guess What I Did This Afternoon!
When arguing online you do
Your foe may fail to convince you,
May reject logic, spew rhetoric,
And end up looking pathetic,
May cite false studies, make up a fact,
Surrender any façade of tact,
May display no virtue and every sin,
But alas, my friend, you still won’t win.
Filed under Poems
Today Poetry Turned Out To Be a Useful Life Skill! (Kind Of)
Backstory: I’ve been in touch with a graphic designer. It’s taken a few weeks for her to send me designs, and her emails hadn’t shown up in my inbox. When asked my opinion of the work I whipped out my poetic prowess and replied…
In neither spam nor inbox
Did the message you sent go.
Where it came from I am certain.
Where it went to, I don’t know.
The message’s presence may bring joy.
It’s absence truly doesn’t,
So if sending seemed like a success
I assure you that it wasn’t.
Now isn’t that more fun than “please send it again?”
Filed under Poems
The True Stories Are The Best, And The Best Deserve Many Likes And Comments
A spin across the border
Up to Canada I go
But as the guards interrogate
My engine starts to slow.
A bit of coaxing later
There’s a spitter-sputter-spop!
And off I go, yet unaware
I won’t make it to my stop.
I travel down the highways
91 and 99
Going Northward to Vancouver
And my truck’s still going fine.
I pull into a left turn lane
And my heart can only drop
‘Cause the green arrow says “go”
And my engine says “nah, stop.”
And so I try a jump start
To no avail, I hate to say.
911 responds and sends
A friendly tow truck on its way.
The nicest driver ever
Hooks up chains and ropes and all
And we drive back to America
Truck as f***ed up as Darth Maul.
Now a tow truck is a large machine
That can’t turn on a dime
And the driver drops me kindly
At the border crossing line.
I wait and wait and wait and wait
Until the light turns green
And thus begins the uphill push
Of my alternator-less machine.
I push up to the crossing
Halfway out and halfway in
$270 Canadian poorer
But back where I said “begin.”
So for a second tow I wait
Watching hour hands tick by.
If this poem’s unusually thoughtful, well
You know the reason why.
Filed under Poems
The Last Word Means “Isn’t It” In Sekigaharan-Era Japanese… Or Something
I’m a bit of a shut-in,
A nerd I confess.
(A semi-pro poet?
Now who’d ever guess?)
But today I got social.
(Is he out of his mind?)
I got out of the house
Leaving nerddom behind.
At 8:00 AM sharp
I watched children play chess
Then I drove to Canada
To play Pokemon (yes).
Then I played a game
Of Sekigahara
Which is about Japanese folks
Whose names rhyme with Ishikara.
I ended it all
By taking a friend
To an improv show based on
The D&D trend.
I got home at 11:00
And 51 minutes.
It’s good to know I’m
A nerd no longer, innit?
Filed under Poems
Valor’s Better Half (Alternate Title: Close To Home)
Discretion is a virtue
For which some have a knack.
Alas, it seems my roommate
In this department oft does lack.
I too must use discretion
When I lay upon his pillow
Subtle ads for soundproofing
And houses for rent on Zillow.
His endurance is remarkable
As much as his discretion.
He can “dance” for 90 minutes
Split into 60 micro-sessions.
I thought about live-tweeting
My compatriot’s loving dance
But by the time I’d typed my password
I’d already lost my chance.
Now in addition to discretion
Temperance I must display
To avoid sending him this poem
About his “bet you can’t have just one” lays.
You might call that passive-aggressive
And Dear Reader you’d be right.
I’ll ponder such implications
As I’m live-tweeting tonight.
Filed under Poems
Medical Motivation
I’m a proctologist,
Healer of butts.
That much I swear is the truth.
Folks always ask
Why I’ve chosen such work
That so clearly is gross and uncouth.
Some say it’s because
I want to be rich.
Some think I must be gay.
Some say I’ve got
A stick up my butt
And I want you to feel the same way.
Some say I had talent
In medical school
And I’d probably have aced all my classes
If I hadn’t been so
Dedicated and focused
On the likes of my peers and their asses.
Some say I love butts
A little too much
But hadn’t the talent for porn.
The truth is I want
To study in depth
How politicians are born.
Filed under Poems
The Daily Travesty 