Putting Pen to Paper

 

Playfully putting pen to paper

to participate in the proliferation

of profane poetry.

 

Shit.

Sex.

Dirty Stuff.

Yeah, real nasty things.

Boogers.

 

Pointless puffery

peddled while patiently

pausing from purity in

pursuit of pleasures.

 

Poetry, per say,

providing the portal

of phonetic pornography,

impersonally.

 

Protest this putrid and

pompous puerility?   

Please.

You’ve perused previously.

 

Boobies.

Naughty stuff,

Butts.

Lingerie.

 

Probably pushing the

polite positions of polished

and practiced plebeians.

Pedantic plop.

 

Putting the pen to paper,

(fingers to the keys)

placing profound pressure on

a poet in presenting profundities.

 

Playful poem,

proudly displayed,

pronouncing,

“Writer’s Block.”

 

Piss.

That Sinking Feeling

 

“This boat is sinking,” said the Captain.

“No, there’s just extra water around,” said the man, “we’re not sinking.”

 

“This extra water is up to our knees,” said the Captain.

“Maybe your knees but not mine. I’m taller so…,” said the man.

 

“Listen, you keep ignoring the problem and you’ll drown,” said the Captain as he put on his life preserver.

“You keep saying there’s a problem, but everything is fine with me. I’m taller than you, remember,” said the man.

 

“I’m not sure what height has to do with this, the whole boat is sinking, you don’t see that as a problem in general,” asked the Captain.

“It’s not my boat,” said the man.

 

“There’s hundreds of people on board that could die if it sinks, what about them,” asked the Captain.

“That’s not really a “me” problem,” said the man.

 

“Well, just in case, please put on this life preserver,” said the Captain.

“Who are you to tell me to put on a life preserver? How dare you tell me what to do,” said the man as he tossed the life preserver aside.

 

The Captain sighed and blew his emergency whistle and ordered the life boats to be loaded.

 

“I’m not getting in those boats. They don’t look safe,” said the man.

“They’re perfectly seaworthy and safe. Now please get in,” said the Captain.

 

“Who made these boats? Where were they certified as sea worthy? Are there other options I can take,” asked the Man.

“I don’t know who made them, they’re life boats. To save lives. They’re inherently good things,” said the Captain.

 

“Well if you’re not sure about them then I’m not getting in and all those people getting in them are just sheep. Can’t think for themselves. Total sheep,” said the man, folding his arms across his chest. The water now wetting his elbows.

 

“I'm sure the boats are just fine. Now please sir, you’re actually holding up the line for those that do want to get on the boats,” said the Captain.

“Why should I move? They should find another way around me because I’m comfortable where I am,” said the man.  

 

“Listen, sir, you’re becoming a danger to the other passengers and the water is rising rapidly,” said the Captain.

“Well, you should do something about it, but only if I agree that what you do is right for me,” said the man.

 

“If you don’t move sir, I’m afraid I may have to shoot you sir,” said the Captain.

“You’re a gun guy too! That’s awesome! I love my guns. I love my guns, Jesus, American beer, trucks, not waiting in line, spitting on the sidewalk, and making sick ass messes in port-o-potties, cause, like whatever right? That’s not my job to clean it up. You should have seen what I did to the shitter on this tugboat,” said the man.

 

“That was you,” asked the Captain, “you’re disgusting. Why would you write on the walls with your own shit?”

“I didn’t wash my hands either, that’s you’re rule, not mine,” said the man.

 

The Captain pulled his side arm from his holster.

 

“Fine, I’ll move, but I’m not getting on those untested boats. Who knows what crazy shit might be in those boats? They’re probably self-driving boats with microchip computers that are designed to take us to some pirate slave island where we’ll be forced to have sex with dudes and eat aborted fetuses. You get in if you want, but I’m staying safe right here,” said the man.

 

The other passengers rushed around the man and safely boarded the life boats.   The Captain looked at the man, with water now over his folded arms nearly at his neck, and made one last appeal to the man to board.

 

“No way (gurgle). Have fun on your gay sex slave island you devils,” said the man.

 

The Captain ordered the lifeboats to be lowered into the water and they safely rowed away from the sinking ship. The Captain kept his eye on the man, who seemed to be shouting something now. The Captained strained to hear.

 

“Aren’t (gurgle, choke) you coming back for me,” screamed the man right before the sea swallowed him.

 

The life boats did actually have computer-controlled navigation that did take the survivors to a sex island (sex of all kinds was had and the meals were all inclusive and fabulous, no fetuses in sight), and all agreed that it was really the best vacation they ever had and can’t wait to go back next year.

 

 

 

 

 

Nauticus

Photo by

Darren.Moore

Forgot

 

I forgot to be mad.

I forgot to be jealous.

 

I forgot my regrets.

I forgot my foolishness.

 

I forgot it all.

I forgot I was forgetting.

 

I looked at her,

she looked at me.

 

I forgot everything else

except her eyes, looking back at mine.

 

I forgot about this sort of thing.

I forgot about that meaningful look.

 

I forgot lovers looked that way.

I forgot how hard I wished for it.

 

I forgot the past,

I forgot the future.

 

I forgot ever worrying,

I forgot that I was supposed to.

 

I forgot to be anxious.

I forgot to be scared.

 

I forgot my judgments.

I forgot my preconceptions.

 

I remember

Her smile.  

 

I saw it, that sweet smile,

which I had forgotten women make.

 

I hope she remembers it,

as well as I do.  

 

But then,

I forgot I am a romantic.

Clicking

 

I kept hearing clicking as we spoke.

The sound a roller coaster might make

as it climbs higher and higher,

but there’s no drop.

 

We keep talking,

I keep hearing clicking,

and it fills me with a new

excitement.

 

The clicking isn’t annoying,

or frustrating or intimidating,

it’s just there, like the gears of

a grandfather clock masterfully made.

 

A metronome swinging back and forth

with the rhythm of the conversation,

a steady pace, clicking, like parts

fitting together.

 

Click – I like that.

Click – I like that too.

Click – That makes me laugh.

Click – Me too.

 

It was no measure of time,

it wasn’t a beating of hearts,

just a conversation,

clicking.

 

A clicking I liked,

A clicking I hope to hear more.

A clicking that fits effortlessly

into place with the other clicking sounds.

 

Click – I saw that too.

Click – I had a similar adventure.

Click – I see that the same way!

Click – Let’s do this again.

 

A kiss good-night – Click.

Twenty Years Ago

 

These are always tough to write.

I’ve actually written ten of them.

You’d think it would get easier,

but it never really does.

 

20 years is a lifetime to some,

20 years is nothing in the universe.

20 years ago, is odd to say.

20 years ago, is easy to remember.

 

09/11/2001.

As much a date in my mind as

12/07/1941 and 06/06/1944,

as much as 04/12/1861 and

04/02/1917 or 01/28/1986.

 

All dates of infamy and pain.

Shared across this country like

a yoke of impossible disbelief.  

Joining us all in the choir of sorrows.

 

We have grown with the scars

etched on our souls,

while the young know nothing

of the marks we carry inside.

 

It’s strange to imagine a world

before 9/11. I don’t remember

what life was like before then.

Were we less divided as a country?

More divided?

 

Were conspiracies and cockamamie

theories just the left-overs of bad

X-Files episodes or were we always

headed down such a divisive path?

 

Does it diminish the memory of all

those valiant lost and dead when we

play with the tableau of history to suit

our perspective?

 

I miss who we were,

20 years ago, on 09/09/2001.

I miss not having to ask these questions.

I honor those that were elevated into memory,

as I trace the scar on my soul.

                                            -------------------------------------------------

 

 - Photo Credit - Me. I took this photo on 08/23/2001 (I had it framed, that’s why it looks like I took it with a cell phone.)

For a Change

 

In Autumn,

a sunbeam,

is aesthetically pleasing.

 

In Winter,

a sunbeam,

is precious.

 

In Spring,

a sunbeam,

is a welcome old friend.

 

In Summer,

a sunbeam,

is a laser beam death ray.

 

It’s perspective,

that’s changed.

Like the seasons.

 

Always on the move,

always in flux,

always in transition.

 

No stubborn absolutism,

no intransigent positions,

no stagnation.

 

Change is change,

for change,

in change.

 

In mind,

a change,

is good.