Scribes of Hell whose very whims control the fate of evil mortals, you are most vicious and unjust. By your hands, you creatively and indiscriminately prescribe punishment upon the living. From your grey hearts, you pour forth no sympathy upon mankind. I seek your diabolical aid through this incantation. Scribes of Hell, I beseech you to listen to my plea. I ultimately wish absolute ruin upon pencil thieves — those petty practicioners of pilfering who claimed my silver Pilot Dr. Grip mechanical pencil as their own. May its .5 lead break at each word they write, and may they misspell countless words without an eraser in sight. May their hands be so crippled that they can no longer feel with their fingers, let alone grasp a writing implement. May its use frustrate the thieves so tremendously that they stab out their hearts with the very pencil they had stolen. Only then can I claim victory against those who stole my beloved silver pencil.
In times like these, I think of you –
Great Chef Gaston D’Astaire
who can create food poisoning
with such elegance and flair
There’s E. coli in my spinach
and mad cow in my steak.
Avian flu — my chicken dinner
and red tide in my clam bake
Salmonella mayonnaise
served with the pork tartare.
potato salad nicely left
two days uncovered in the car.
your kitchen smells just like a dumpster
behind a chinese restaurant –
it’s easy to eat all I can
when there’s nothing I can want.
but really, you cook rather well –
in fact, that’s all you do.
If you had more than one dimension,
there’d be more poems about you.
If you could make the distinction
between food and biochemical war
Gaston, I think even you could be
the next Food Network star.
Until then, I do request,
because I think it simply rude,
that you refrain from your attempts
to serve me what you claim is food.
The flickering lights of a star-lit night
The street lamps burning — what a sight
Gazing at the starry sky
At midnight — my rocking chair and I.
I sang a song forgotten ’bout the brightly shining sky
That it came to mind, I was left to wonder why.
I shed a tear for loneliness as I began to cry
At midnight — my rocking chair and I.
The crow sang merrily, barely audible to me.
He stared back at my countenance, still perched upon a tree.
I felt I was about to die — alone — a sigh
At midnight — my rocking chair and I.
There I sat crying slowly dying — only rocking chair and I
Staring, gazing, still admiring the wonders of the sky.
Lonely singing, crying, dying to smile, I said I’d try
At midnight — my rocking chair and I.
War, Famine, Genocide, Disease, Poverty
Intolerance, Ignorance, Injustice,
Suffering, Sorrow, Seclusion,
My Sadness,
My Afflictions,
My Hatred –
You can make all these things disappear
but you do not.
Humiliated!
My Pride died again today
You must share its fate
Pretty butterfly
My cats would tear you apart
But they are not here
In meditation
Attainment of inner peace
What a crock of shit
Channel surfing bliss
tanto, daisho, tactical –
two hicks hawking knives
A herd of children
walking to the library
so long, quietude
I feel inferior
to everyone in this world
I want to destroy
My crowbar awaits
unsuspecting customer
demanding more time
a happy chorus
celebrating existence
I wish they would stop
Now all hope is lost
Here, there is only sorrow
Film at eleven
Leaves in autumn breeze
swaying in my memories
Summer really bites
I saw a sunset –
horizon consumed in flames
and it made me smile
Standing in the rain
wasting all my pleasant thoughts
wishing I was dry.
A tranquil garden
cherry blossoms all around –
where the hell am I?