Poem #87

He was on the couch again.

He was having thoughts again.

Thoughts about killing Grandma.

Sheila inked on her Moleskine:

Primary caregiver’s primary caregiver.

They sat in silence for fifty-nine minutes.

Then he admitted: she’s old, I’m young–

I won’t succumb to her arthritic thumb.

Nodding like a pendulum, Sheila

Penned a careful addendum:

Remind Karl re: Boohoo order.

Poem #62

We met a guy outside Oxford station,

Whose accent, by my guesstimation,

Synched cockney and northern Australian.

From behind his grill he wore a permagrin,

Vending a limited menu therein

(With the odd translation in Mandarin).

When, at length, I enquired about these

Infrequent Hanzi, he replied, ‘If you please,

They reconcile my commercial needs.

If all were translated, people might see

My humble grill as an outlet Chinese;

So to preserve my name as a barbecue,

I determined only to gloss the most select few.

But, because I orientally spell some,

My Chinese clients always feel welcome.’

Unsure what else I might feasibly say,

I nodded,

‘Understandable, have a nice day.’

Poem #47

Pytbull! Pytbull! Rapping slick,

Spanish adlibs in the mix,

Many times these eyes have cried

To hear my Mr. Worldwide.

 

When your name adorns a feat.,

Other names I do delete:

I thought it best Chris Brown to rub

Off of Internat’nal Love.

 

To lies I bring the thresher,

Like, ‘Timber is by Ke$ha.’

What to do against such muck?

Scoop it, like a tonka truck.

 

It irks my soul (truth be told)

To see memed a man so bald;

No meme, I think, can be great

If it displays your stainless pate.

 

Pytbull! Pytbull! Rapping slick,

Spanish adlibs in the mix,

Many times these eyes have cried

To hold my Mr. Worldwide.

Poem #38

Pockets of gold collect above tree trunks,

Leaving each base swaddled in low umbrage;

My quest today is to locate some skunks,

(An ambition of mine since a young age).

Viewed from above they seem to wear medals,

White metal slipped around their unkempt tails;

The forest critters keep them well fed, all!

So that their ‘lympic posture never fails.

But what attracts me most, of course, is stink,

A chance to sample nature’s grim defence;

My nose the beastly odour whole shall drink,

And relish every sensory offense.

Let me ask, before you judge: are my goals

Not just viewing locked doors as unfilled holes?