Not all that heroic
The way other people feel about sleeping in
Is how I feel about going to bed early
Not really that much into revenge
I’m short of being a billionaire by roughly a billion dollars
In terms of being a world-class
I’m 0 for 4
I won’t look nearly as good at age 80
I’ve never had any desire to turn
Orphaned children into sidekicks
I’m terrible at strategy:
I not only can’t play chess,
My checkers and even “go fish” games are lacking
I would waste too much time
Figuring out what Wayne Enterprises does.
Licensed merchandising is my guess.
Because the Joker sucks,
And Batman is forever running into him
Because it’s all I can do
To do 20 minutes of yoga in the morning
I drive too slow.
And I wouldn’t want a house that big
Because spending all my time in a cave
Is a way-too-stereotypical male thing to do
This poem’s ending happily,
I’ll tell you right up front.
It’s when the moon’s at syzygy
You question if that’s quite a word:
It is. And there’s the brunt
Of what I mostly meant to say
Today, tomorrow, yesterday —
For there are words that you can see
Like apogee, or perigee,
Of doubtless authenticity.
But this is like a stunt:
To use a word without a vowel,
And “y’s” slapped on it with a trowel:
I see it now – you’re doubting me –
That there’s a word like syzygy.
This seems like poem overdose
And not just that the moon is close.
Or better yet, that it’s in line
With earth and sun. All that is fine:
But Owen, really, must you flounce
About with words we can’t pronounce?
But I say we can plainly be
In harmony at syzygy.
And this is how my poem ends.
You see? We still are (mostly) friends…
stays the wayment for awhile,
kindergraph in campanile,
taken for a technophile
we wash away the dirt
but long to be in sand:
and yet, they might be synonyms.
it’s hard to understand —
but that is how we think,
and that is who we are:
where dirt is just a dirty word,
but sand gets good
They boarded up my store today,
My turnstiles just would not turn;
And so the place would be quite sad,
If it weren’t ultra-
Pumpkins: we place them with Halloween
By season and tradition,
But I could not help but wondering,
And had a faint suspicion
That something more sinister may be there,
Though their patches might look sleepy —
In autumn, do pumpkins use human spice?
‘Cause that would just
talking more and meaning less,
seems so damn inviting:
you might call it fathomless,
but i call it
fiddle-faddle, that’s my name:
spouting nonsense is my shame.
drove me from my lands and nation,
here to live as a crustacean,
without followers who follow
in a shack in sao paulo,
til the man says, “you skedaddle!”
i’ll indulge in fiddle-faddle.
stuff and nonsense, that’s my life:
if you doubt, just ask my wife.
with brazilian clams i’m dwelling,
both miswriting and misspelling,
hating air and breathing water,
envious of eel and otter —
til the man says, “that’s enough!”
i’ll have nonsense with my stuff.
linguacide’s my undertaking:
bending words until they’re breaking.
try this next one on for size —
seven tulips are the prize —
it’s my right and heritage
to mismangle verbiage.
bye for now. enjoy the ride.
you just witnessed
If I wait to take my medicine, I can write a lot of poems before I start having seizures. I have about another hour before things start to get really bad, so I’m taking advantage of it for now. I was trying to post 48 new pieces in 24 hours; I couldn’t tell you why. It’s 8:13 AM as I write this, and I am in a hotel room with a day’s drive ahead of me.
Why we do what all we do,
I’m not sure and nor are you.
Climates change and tempers vary,
All of it seems arbitrary;
Some connection happens freely,
Most of us are frightened, really.
Couplets drone in empty sounding,
Hearts that hearken to keep pounding.
Why we do what all we do?
I don’t know, and nor