humor

Laugh Track

Standard

Management left some notes,

the show needs more Poignant Moments™️

it needs approximately 25% more

human emotion.

In the editing booth

effect precedes cause,

if we so choose.

Throw in a few, oddly familiar

hearty chuckles,

compel the viewer

to react authentically.

I’m sure the audience

was itching to laugh,

I’m sure,

but nothing wrong with a little help.

No pleasure is truly guiltless.

The fourth wall

is merely pantomimed,

the watcher and the watched

enter an unspoken pact,

to affect one another

or disappear altogether.

Jeers, scorn and rotting tomatoes

don’t phase us at all,

that’s showbiz.

Stick around for the commercials,

they’re, in our opinion,

the best part.

Have a laugh,

we insist,

they’re infectious.

Fig Leaf

Standard

Judge me by my cover,

trust me on this,

I am an open book.

In the interest of transparency,

I have laid it all bare,

can you tell?

Look no further,

I can explain that away,

it’s really just a huge

misunderstanding.

It’s all perfectly normal,

perfectly normal.

I don’t want you to strain

your eyes on something

so mundane.

Some things just aren’t meant

to see

the light of day;

the curiosity

kills me

every time.

But not this thing,

which is completely ordinary

and totally fine.

Can you tell?

People Watchers

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No good deed goes unpaid,

so let me know when you’ve figured

out the going rate

for exposure.

We get that in spades

as the days go on,

and everyone talks, and talks.

“It’s none of my business,”

or so you say,

sitting on a bench

in a tumultuous place.

People going on and on

about their days, their weeks.

The meek will inherit the Earth,

but even they, sometimes,

are willing to bend the golden rule

for a laugh at other’s expense.

Moving along, moving along

we mustn’t dwell.

We’ve all got things to do today,

places to be,

stories to tell.

In the Flesh

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I wish the fire

in the pit of my stomach

would warm my heart

during cold nights,

but the heat

doesn’t quite

travel that far.

I belch up smoke,

because I am only skin and bones.

My Achilles’ tendon,

sore and raw

from javelin wounds

that won’t heal,

because I can’t stop

picking at the scabs.

I am only human.

If only I could

power wash

the spaces

between the folds in my brain.

Unravel it, rinse it off

and wring it out —

but it has to stay

in the case

because it doesn’t travel well.

I am the sum

of all my defective parts,

inextricably stitched together

with connective tissue,

take me or leave me.

Heaven is Under Our Feet

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You may never

step in the same river twice,

but it feels

all too familiar

to tread water.

We’re up to our knees

and it seems

we’ll be bogged-down

for a while.

You must accept

that if you get down and dirty,

you’re bound to leave

some footprints.

Press on, press on —

the adventure doesn’t end

because our shoes are scuffed,

our pants

caked with dirtclods,

our hair more mussed

than when we just woke up.

The world is your canvas,

and you are equal parts

artist and explorer-

this morning is a once-in-a-lifetime

opportunity

to simply live.

Just make sure,

upon your return,

that you don’t track any mud

on your clean carpets.

There’s a time and a place

for that.

From the Waiting Room

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I’m convinced that

if I got to see purgatory,

it would have those

dim old fluorescent lights

like in the dentist’s office.

Coffee tables

adorned with Styrofoam cups

and nondescript vases

full of plastic flowers.

I will fall apart before they do.

And even with all of those

ancient magazines

to read,

I wonder if I’d find the time.

My crossed legs,

already well acquainted

with pins and needles,

would dance in place.

Caught in the vacuum

of stasis.

In this case,

I’m just fine with the cold comfort

of “could be worse.”

At a crossroads

between appointments,

waiting for my turn.

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Defenestration

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This has gotten out of hand.

It’s not the way,

I would’ve planned,

to make an exit. 

Angry crowds coalescing,

twelve stories below

expressing discontent.

Maybe 

I’ll catch an updraft

and glide away.

Maybe I’ll land

on all fours, catlike.

But they know my name,

they’ll give chase

with pitchforks and pikes.

This is getting out of hand.

Maybe they’ll leave the back door

unlocked for me,

or I’ll end up in the moat.

I sure hope so.

It’s my turn already?

This is getting out of hand,

I don’t know where I’ll land,

this might get a little

uncomfortable.

Motion Sickness

Standard

Through no fault of your own,

you appear to be oscillating.

It truly is a terrible state of affairs

to never quite get your bearings,

my condolences.

They say, in due time,

you will sprout sea legs —

but even then

I’d probably end up with

two left-flippers.

Half-past 10

and I’m hugging the mast,

spiralling,

spiralling.

Let’s get down to brass tacks,

I’m about to spill my guts out.

I, sea cucumber,

have gone fishing

with my good chums —

but all I caught was nausea.

Ho-hum.

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Sun Poisoning

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Shadows of seagulls

soaring overhead

offer no respite

from the glaring sun above.

You could fry an egg

on the asphalt by mid-morning.

Despite reapplying,

by 1 o’clock

I’m scarlet like

perfectly cooked lobster —

If only someone

would crack me open.

But molting will take time

I wear my sun-dried shell

because I have no choice

but to be myself.

Today I glow,

but not with health.

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Echolocation

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Soaring on

streams of consciousness.

I’m speaking up

speaking up —

even if you’re not tuned-in.

Haven’t you heard?

I’m broadcasting

so that one way

or another

we’ll find each other.

I’ll spread the word.

Come dusk

we’ll find a spot

with great acoustics,

and sing our hearts out.

I’m speaking up,

speaking up,

because I have a voice.

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