Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Eat My Shorts

I’ve been reading a lot of poetry lately and have noticed a disturbing trend. I don’t know whether it’s due to my choice in poets, but it seems to me that most poems in print are longer than ten lines. This isn’t to say that a “longer” poem is a bad thing. But that the vast majority of published poems are of lengthier content, reinforces the idea that “longer is better.” While I must admit, it’s very satisfying to work my lips around a nice long poem; it’s the shorter poems that often get me off because, at the end, they’re the ones with the most “pop.”

The following “shorts” have been selected from my stash with great care. May they bring a smile to your face, if nothing else :)

You can’t change

Your nature,

But you can become

Painfully aware

Of it
Leave Your Shoes at Home
There’s a laughter

That swells in me

Like a mushroom cloud,

Splitting my insides

On the way to

My mouth

If I remove my hand

The sky will break

And shower the people below

In pink glass
The Reindeer Man
I can hear the spirit in the reindeer man’s voice,

I can hear its injured call

Ring out through his words,

He walks alone through the tundra

With the last of his herd,

The sun melting his steps

From the earth
Soup’s On
It’s not enough

Just to take their bullshit

You have to like it,

You have to enjoy

Getting your guts ripped out

Through your asshole

And fried in front of your eyes

For supper
The difference between

A good writer

And a bad writer


A good writer

Writes a lot of bad drafts

And a bad writer

Only writes

Face in the Water
In my quest

To be loved

I’ve stared into more

Toilet bowls


Pretty eyes
My Girl
I’ll know she’s for me

If I give her earrings

At a restaurant

And she leaves the box

On the table
Her last words to me were

“Fuck you.”

And when the phone


I saw my heart …
A diseased rapist

In a red van
Christmas Wish
As I sit at the dinner table

Amidst the turkeys

And the candles

I want nothing more than

To slice my hands off

And slide in the spa

And watch the blood

Issue from my wrists

Like smoke
By the Fire
At the end of the night

The sweetest thing

Is hugging my grandma’s belly

And listening to

Her guts squeak
Note: I reserve the right to occasionally alter the character names, descriptions, and/or event details in my posts for the purposes of identity protection and “fluidity of story.” If this puts a kink in your panties, read someone else’s blog, homey.