Snowflake

Imagine a snowflake
falling from the sky, yes the sky
where else would it fall from?
And as it falls, it grows, it crystallizes, it freezes
into a unique structure,
something that people will praise,
something ir-reproducible – like a made up word.
But I ask:
As this flake falls,
white, crisp, light onto your feather filled parka like
a feather, and melts into its constituent form,
and soaks into the fabric,why can’t it refreeze
and take a new shape?
Another shot at uniquity – another made up word.
Why must its individuality, its trajectory
end with one shot?
The water cycle will tell you it doesn’t:
Evaporation, Condensation, Precipitation, Storage
And the seasons say so too.

Pisstol

Yellow urine bladdered in the tank of a plastic gun, made all the more putrid by its green material tint, sloshing and bubbling, foaming into a fizz, as the gunman runs, ready to release a deadly stream of piss.

“I will spray you,” he howls, pumping the soaker to make the stream super, wishing his own pisstol could be so easily enlarged, gnashing yellow teeth, the front two gapped and scummy, no wonder spray lisps.

His target, a wise little rabbit trying to keep his thick, brown fur warm and dry, scurries, he knew his fate from the start – the color of the school bus told him so.

The fox cackles, points the orange tip, lets out a steaming stream, pumps again, the stream splashes harmlessly on the street, darker black liquid stains upon dry charcoal grey, a mark of his territory.

A shoe lace flails, betraying, entangling, snaring, rabbit. He falls, saving face with hands, but scraping each pure white palm into a red scramble pocked with gravel.

“Gotcha,” the predator pounces, whipping back his golden mane in glee. The orange tip, drips, hovers inches above widened brown irides, finger mounts trigger.

Will he deliver?

And tomorrow, when the gun is gone, no matter, the fox will still have his bladder.

1107 Euclid St.

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A Eulogy to my Good Friend, John Ahn

John was a man, a man’s man’s man, a man who liked banquet beer, and broads, and ate only barbequed brats, that were of course self prepared with the delicate care of a toll booth operator will Alzheimer’s. John had hair on his arms, and hair on his legs, and hair on his back, and of course hair on his face in the form of a beard, that was thick and dark, and went well with his wardrobe of flannel. John was a lumberjack, a LumberJohn as it were. I mean this literally, you know, you don’t always have to be metaphorical and deep – Kermit the Frog on mescaline may be wise for a time, but eventually you realize that he, like everyone else is just a tadpole with legs. But I digress, and am apologetic, severely so, for I must tell you the story of LumberJohn the lumberjack. He was real manly, you get it, I mean he cut down trees for a living and was strictly carnivorous! His friends were all lumberjacks too, and usually, on the weekends they’d get together at the local shooting range and chew bullets, while shooting their handmade bow- and-arrows at burlap sacks that they stuffed with wood chips and baby robin eggs and fashioned to look like Richard Simmons – the likeness was astounding. Well, one such weekend, while John was waiting for his friend Herb to pick him up from home, he decided to pass the time in a new and exciting way. John had a secret passion for nails. Yes, nails! And no, not the metallic ones, the kind you would expect, but the keratinous ones that protrude from your fingers and toes. Up until now, in his 42 years of sentient life, living in pure masculinity and making Conan the Barbarian look like a tampon commercial coated in Avon Skin-So-Soft Luscious Lip Balm, he had never exercised his fancy. So, having previously purchased some of the finest red nail polish from his secret catalogue subscription to Estee Lauder, he sat down on the floor and began to paint. He tore off his boots. He ripped off his socks. A stench emitted from between his toes. But then, then, delicately, paintbrush to yellow fungus-ed canvas, he stroked and made himself pretty.


And well, you probably guessed it, but Herb walked in the door, just in time to catch John red-handed (finger-nailed to be precise) and he stopped in a shock. John’s heart fluttered, he reeled his head to Herb, and instantly he felt like a steak being cooked in a microwave, marinated with catsup, and served with a side of beets. Words weren’t exchanged, but from that day onward, things were different in the forest. And the shooting range? The shooting range was just shot to hell. Never the same.



God damn you John

Fire!

Fire that bonds and burns through the night
Your heat draws me in,
Your orange light unblinds
I enter your radiance and wonder who made you
I watch your core glow, your flames lick, and ask why you burn
With dread, as I see your fuel slowly crumble into ash, I can only think, when will you die?
I move closer towards you, to question further, but you burn me, and I recoil in pain
In resolve, I admire your beauty and embrace your warmth from a distance, until the moment you fade away.

The Sensation of Pulsation

To pulsate puberectically, that’s what I want to do
Like a frothing wet vagina,
Or a butthole passing poo

Or a veiny, growing lizard with an eye and bulbous sac
Who grows and throws his lizard milk
In a sticky, white attack

To pulsate pulsate pulsate
Like a raisin in the sun,
It was a grape that swelled and burst
Now it’s the smoking gun

Of what is left of youth and past
A supple bodice, not built to last
A skin, no soul, merely a cast
A shining soul that lived too fast

But I digress,
I stress, I stress,
That the bodice is the upper part of a women’s dress
And well, I guess

To pulsate like a loving heart,
Is simply, always best

Yet to quiver like a chicken dick, well that’s a second close
Or a close second,
I meant to say
But that expression's so morose!

Which one, you ask, the chicken dick quivering?
Or the fact that I’m delivering,
My sentiments in jest
It’s the latter, yes you guessed.

Now, lest you return
Remember what you’ve learned
To pulsate is the very best,
To pulsate, and to burn

If only I could sing

I’m just a little bit of coconut fuzz
I’m just a bee, can you hear me a buzz?
I’m just a prehistoric dino that was
I’m just a bein’ and I’m singing because

I’m just a little bit of sand on the beach
I’m just the hair on the skin of a peach
I’m just a star shinin’ way out of reach
And I’m just a bein’ makin’ energy speech


Whenever you think that you know what you are
Look up to the sky, look up to the stars

Whoever it is that you want to a be
Remember I’m you, and you’re probably me

Cuz I’m just a little bit of coconut fuzz
I’m just a bee, can you hear me a buzz?
I’m just a prehistoric dino that was
I’m just a bein’ and I’m singing because

I’m just a little piece of blueberry pie
I’m just a dot on the top of an i
I’m just creature livin’ under the sky
I’m just a here and I wanna know why

Zombies

Hello my ghoulish Zombie friend, how is your brain today?
Your gaze is blank, your body foul, have you something to say?
Go away? Go away you say? No I insist, I must here stay.
There’s something on my mind you see, I’ve got to get it out the way!
Okay?
Your inner woes and conflicts, your recognition of self failures, your brewing frustrations with the outer world, (which you believe to be the cause of said failures), and your resoluteness in this belief all manifest in your blank, vegetative gaze. Like a plant, you suck in that blue, plasmatic light, but you do not grow. No! All growth is suppressed, and neither can you reflect, for its shine has made you dull.
Hearsay, you say?
You’re wrong my friend, for why would I lead you astray?
My only wish, for you, the plant, is to be a shining ray
But instead, you watch your glowing screen, and are molded, as if clay.

Time to Go

Tickety, tock, the time stream flows,
And I can tell you were it goes,
So take that finger out of your nose
And listen up get on those toes

Time goes behind, comes from ahead
And with some time, we’ll all be dead
But please forget what I’ve just said
Unless you want a life of dread

There’s lots of ways to pass the time
You can do like me, and make things rhyme
You can widdle a flute, or bang a chime
You can bake a cake, or squeeze a lime

You can learn the Tango, of go to France
You can wear your shirt like a pair of pants
You can sit all day and watch the ants
You can think about life’s shoulds and shants

You can spend your time just cutting cheese
You can learn a language, like Japanese
You can pray to God, down on your knees
You can even collect things, like keys…or peas…or fleas…or rare LPs…or geez! I should just shut up
Because,
You can waste your time if you please
But the moments of others, don’t waste these

A Poem About a Pony

A poem about a pony, that’s what I want to write
She’s well fed, not too bony, polka dotted green and white

I won her at the circus, when I was seventeen
Her name was Halladercus, but I changed it to Maureen

I thought that we should trek the globe, we left from Illinois
I wore a cotton terry robe, Maureen wore corduroy

At first we traveled to Japan, and ate wasabi rice
I turned eighteen, became a man, Maureen contracted lice

After Japan, we swam and swam, and made it to Peru
I helped a shepherd birth a lamb, Maureen, she caught the flu

We water skied to Malawi, we got there by mistake
I hung out with a wallaby, Maureen stepped on a snake

We pogo sticked till we were sick, and ended up in Wales
I learned a secret magic trick, Maureen broke all her nails!

We snow mobiled out to Nepal, and saw a mountain range
I met a monk whose name was Saul, Maureen, she got the mange

Ziplining down the mountains, we stopped in Italy
I photographed some fountains, but Maureen just had to pee

To warm up a bit, we took our trip, to the island of Buton
I saw a sunken pirate ship, Maureen just seemed withdrawn

But we hitch hiked to Australia, to see The Barrier Reef
I learned to say “G’day to Ya”, Maureen remarked, “Good Grief!”

“You took me from the circus, where I was having fun!
I once was Halledercus, That’s it, We’re through, I’m done!”
“Oh dear Maureen, I did reply, please give me one more chance.
Just one more place, give it a try! I’ll change this circumstance!”


So the two of us, then took a bus, right back to Illinois
I told Maureen, “You shouldn’t fuss, there’s something you’ll enjoy”

And back at home, there on my farm, there was a field of hay
Maureen rejoiced, now free from harm, she said that we should stay

The Toliet Tree

Have you ever heard of the toilet tree?
It’s real, yes it’s real, believe you in me!
It’s shaped like a toilet, but it’s not for pee
And I climbed it one time, yep, me and mommy

We were running errands, and it wasn’t too fun
And I said to my mommy, “can we just be done?
How many more stops?”, and she said “Just one”
And it was right then that the journey begun

We came to this store that I never had seen
Its inside was white, and incredibly clean
And right in middle, of isle thirteen
Was a toilet shaped tree, with a porcelain glean!

I looked at my mommy, and she laughed and she smiled
“Let’s climb it,” she said, “aren’t you curious, child?”
She jumped off the floor, ceramically tiled
And she swung up the first branch orangutang styled

So up it I went, but was I surprised!
Because none of the leaves were equally sized
In fact, they weren’t leaves, no I soon realized,
They were things for the bathroom! I couldn’t believe my eyes!

There were leaves for the shower, yes leaves of shampoo
And leaves of made of bar soap, pink, yellow, and blue
And shaving cream cans right next to them grew
My mommy said “Pick them, that’s what we’re here to do!”

There was a branch full of teeth things, like toothpaste and floss
And mouthwash, and toothpicks, and I looked right across
To the branch to my left that grew leaves of lip gloss
And chapstick, and lipstick, and bubble bath sauce

Cue tips, and tissues, and white cotton fluff
With toilet paper petals that were soft, never rough
Formed flowers on branches, next to all the other stuff
I picked one, and Mommy said, “That isn’t enough”

So we went to the next limb, which grew syrups and pills
For fevers, for toothaches, for headaches, for chills
There was a pharmacist monkey for pre-scription fills
And I thought that was all, yes I that thought until


I got to the next branch that grew bandaids and gauze!
And diapers for babies, and some for grandpas
And good smelling lotions, that we didn’t need because
Mommy said they only use those things in spas.

There was a branch full of hair things, like barrettes and brushes
And one that grew perfumes, and powders, and blushes
There were leaves that were creams that make your skin luscious
And mommy said, “Pull the branch at the top, that’s how the Toilet Tree flushes”

So I climbed to the top, and pulled on that limb
And the Toilet Tree flushed, and we started to swim
And we swirled and we spun ‘round the Toilet Tree’s rim
‘Til we got to the bottom, and it filled back to its brim

And we paid for our leaf things, and I said, “Mommy please!
“Can we come back again?” And I begged on my knees
And she laughed and she smiled and she said to me, “Geez,
Since when do you like shopping for toil-et-tries?”