Friday

After day of listening
To weasels explain
Executive rantings and ravings,
And after getting poked
In the chest nine times
By a Jets fan
During a conversation
About Tony Romo,
I needed a moment to think about
The true essence of happiness…

Laughter…

Some might suggest that I’m humorless
Quite untrue for I love a smart laugh
And an insightful look into the absurd,
So today, my first day back,
After a working vacation, I…

Laughed…

Hard…

A juicy, seal like laugh…

One dripping with inuendo…

Naughtiness…

So inspired was I by the jocularity
That my face turned red and
Tears ran from my eyes
As if I had been punctured by a ceramic juicer
On a cold winter’s day…

Laughing…

Maybe the best part
Was the evolution of the punch line,
Set up through a dicussion of killer whales
Digressing into a coded, NC-17 monologue
About culinary hydration and the
Pleasue of eating food dripping with flavor.

As the time changed
Forcing us to our next class,
There had been no joke recognition,
Then the immaturity and ridiculousness
Of our knights at the trapezoidal table talk
Reached a point of satiation
I could not handle any longer.

Dare I say…org…I dare not.

Cue the fireworks,
Bring in the clowns,
“Is that Mel Brooks?,”
Because my laughter nearly
Broke a rib.

It all started again
As I stood over my grill
Debating whether the salmon
Would be flaky or under cooked,
Only a smile and a chuckle this time.
For the record,
The fish was just right.

Pin-Pulling

I’m pulling the pin tonight
Blowing up the vegetarian lunches
That have been the staple
For the last six weeks.
I’m housing sausage
Dipped in spicy A1 sauce
And washing it down with oatmeal stout
All the way from New Holland.
The Poet will be the brand.
There will be M&Ms by the handful,
A candle to steer the foul smells clear, and
Two or three trips to the slider
To see if any snow is falling yet.
After Feherty, I might just go another round
Teeing up a cold one,
Grounding my club in the loose pile of candy, and
Working my way to clarity in the blizzard outside.

Sunday Night

Critique night is coming,
All I’ve gotCritique night is coming,
All I’ve got is a blinking cursor.
I can’t stop with YouTube,
Brilliant Ideas suppressing my own.
Somehow I’m thinking in sculpture
Instead of prose.
The words are escaping me,
But the ideas of shapes,
Installations, and the power of things made
Are taking up the valuable time
I have for writing.

Perhaps Stella will stir my writing.
I’ll have the whole day to post something,
Given the snow prevents going to school,
Of course, I’ll have to turn off
The distraction that is the internet
And all these great examples
Of what art can be,
How far I’ve got to go, and
How little time is left
For this Sunday night
Before the storm.