Enjoy it!

Enjoy It!

I saw so many people today,
on a rare warm winter afternoon,
collecting vitamin D and lifelong memories.
It made my lazy Sunday bike ride a bit of a downer,
so I retreated into a hole in the wall,
pizza place who’s kitchen door opened to the street.
I ordered a huge slice of pepperoni,
grabbed a bar-stool and an IPA in a red plastic cup,
and read a digital version of the New York Times.
The pizza chef’s boom box blasted an album of Beastie Boys B-sides.
As I wallowed in my regrets,
of not having a day worth a spot in my lifetime memory banks,
a tiny 70 year old woman in a long dress coat
pulled up the stool next to me,
She ordered a slice with everything and an IPA.
These choices clashed with her Church clothes and size.
We ate next to each other in silence.
I was still stewing over my days lack of cosmic importance.
She finished first, paid her tab,
grabbed my shoulder and said,
“Enjoy it.”
Enjoy it.
Everyday.



Haiku

Decommissioned subs,
now museums for wide eyed kids
on Sunday afternoon.





Musicians peak at 20.
Poets peak years later and
storytellers never peak.

I should probably delete all of this tomorrow.

Let's all Just Hum for a Moment in Honor of Hummus and it's Powers


I had never eaten hummus until I met you,
and to this day, I know we’re meant for each other
because you get angry when I eat an entire package in one sitting.
but it’s really just your fault cause I do it out of love.
I can’t love you more and I can’t eat too much hummus,
cause I love you like multigrain crackers and garbanzo beans.



Robots and Coffee Mugs


Robots and coffee cups,
empty juice cups and beer bottles,
a half eaten tub of hummus,
and my night’s still not done.
It’s a wild one,
A real rager,
Movie material,
texting back and forth drunkenly
to a friend,
to make a computer game work,
while I let a beautiful woman
pass out in the other room
unattended to.
The coffee is gone,
there is no robot.
Yet.



And the day's haiku. ( I think that Haiku are short 3 linish poems expressing a thought or moment. I try to do the syllables, but would rather express the moment, hence they are flexihaikue.

My cat just said hi!
Jumped up onto my stomach.
For love or supper?

Can or bottle?
the eternal question that
I never remember.

I spent the day bundled
because of a bungled weather report,
tomorrow: the window.

Turn off the TV,
I’m coming to bed to talk
and put you to sleep with the New York Times.

The punk rock blasting
at 1 am is lulling me
to sleep with you.

Is it weird that part of me
doesn’t want to sell my old bike
that I’ll never ride again?

I am the underutilized horn section
in life’s ska band.
Clearly I’m the one that blows.

Say My Name

Say My Name

I can’t write long form because it’d just sound like high school,
so I just use witty poem names to pretend to be deep
and say very little of substance.
There’s so much to say,
and so many people have said it.
So I will speak in bursts of monologues
and all anyone will remember is the name.




Haiku

Ke$ha tickets sell
out for hundreds of dollars
STD test Free


Giant stack of blanks,
ready to be loaded and spun
and make you mixtapes.

The sliver of blue
through the northwest cloud cover
helps me leave on time.

A New New Wave

I have learned I can't blog. I can use Facebook to write a random note or two about some awesome album. Instead, I am just going to use this to post things I write. Some will be good, some will be unfinished, some will be my nightly 27 seconds of writing exercise. Most will be unedited and malleable.

Oh the indulgence.

Two poems, and some stream of consciousness.

Run or Your Upstairs Neighbor

Run,
Never been a runner,
not away,
not too,
not around the block.
I tried for a while.
The constant plodding bored me.
Hurt me.
Ruined my rhythm.
I am not smooth.
Stampede.
Always been a stampede.
No direction,
no aim,
but destroying the underbrush,
to get somewhere.
A mobile performance of stomp,
no plot,
but a kicked over garbage can,
and a standing ovation.



Goofy Wet Smile


I rejoice in my inner 12 year old,
as I ride my bike with no hands,
In a downpour,
at dusk,
daring to reach my arm,
deeper,
deeper,
into my coat pocket,
to pull out the perfect
handful of gummy bears.


Chuckle, Umbrella, Jackass.

I laugh at you and your umbrella. It’s sad you’re scared of a little rain. People dry, it’s one of our innate talents. Close it. Feel your hair matting to your head. Wipe your eyes like you’re in a shower. You are. A big, cleansing, public shower. I know it’s not an original, but sing in the rain. Use your umbrella as a dancing prop. If it gets too hard or cold, go inside and huddle up. If you’re clothes can’t get wet, buy new clothes. We need a new society, where being dirty doesn’t mean you’re not appropriate for work, and being wet is business appropriate. If I can’t get you to get rid of the umbrella, can you at least get a fun one. Black umbrellas are only allowed at funerals. One of life’s great thrills is crossing a bridge in the rain on foot or on a bike. Water beneath you, above you, around you, but you’re sheltered and feel bad because I’m wet. Let’s go have some coffee.


Thank you.