Twofer

More poems. Two, to be precise, since one's kind of a throwaway, as my dad would say. An epigram, if you like. I seem to have stumbled upon this particular niche, this breakfast nook of poetry that I find irresistible. These really don't have anything like love or battle going on behind them, I suppose at least not intentionally, but they are honest. And I think anything true has to have its place outside of itself, has to mean something more than its own existence. Anyway, that's what I've been thinking of lately.

Danny's Stripper Friend

Creepy lady on my couch,
Please wake up, and please get out.
Please get out, out of my house,
Creepy lady on my couch.

*bow*

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Slipping Slowly into the Murky Waters that Lie Between Over-Reliance on Technology for Simple Pleasures and a Post-Modern Sense of Entitlement to an Assumed Super-Advanced Virtual Reality

I have this thing
that I do
with a cigar, my backyard,
and the fireworks over Disneyland
And it's great.
Fire in the sky
Fire in my head
The smoke that hangs over the freeway
And slowly flows away
like a flag unfurled
and released
underwater
down the 5 south
drifting and falling
And it's great.
But I was out of cigars,
And I left work just as they were starting,
Boom.
Boom.
Crackle.
And as I drove around suburban Anaheim,
stopping to pick up smokes and getting
on and off and on and off
of on and off ramps
I wasn't going to get home in time
For my thing
And I thought
Just for an instant:
"I hope I remembered to TiVo this."

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Thanks. It's really nice to have somewhere to put these. I don't know what I'd do with them otherwise. Write them in a little book and keep that little book out of sight most of the time, I suppose.