humor

Troubleshooting

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After a few quick scans

I’ve found it in myself

to put together a damage estimation,

And hold in my hands,

Some summons, subpoenas and citations.

*Ahem*

Cracked two teeth on prickly pear pits,

From breakfast,

Scuffed-up my running shoes which didn’t fit,

3 toes stubbed,

Forearms covered in thorns,

From when I tripped into the shrubs.

Bumps on my crown,

From fallen acorns,

During the post workout cool-down.

And bruised shins,

I think I just woke up with.

Would plead no contest,

But won’t bother showing up to my court date.

I am,

Henceforth,

Placing myself on house arrest,

As my own harshest critic,

Judge, jury and executioner.

Bad Vibes

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It turns out,

Saying “don’t be nervous,”

Is a great way,

To be counterproductive.

Fear is self-sabotage,

And more often than not,

Fired in an unexpected,

Barrage.

Like a bull in a china shop,

It raises hell,

And won’t stop,

Prancing,

And dancing all over,

Your most precious,

Fabergé eggshells.

The floor,

Wasn’t a great place,

To put those,

If I’m being honest.

But that’s not important,

Anymore,

Because it’s time to acknowledge,

These animals in the room.

Quick,

Go get some tweezers,

And glue,

While I patch up,

The kicked-down door,

So no more,

Come through.

 

Nymph-o-mania

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The Nephelae,

In their endless nebulousness,

Floated,

With empty jars,

Once filled with rain water.

The Hamadryads waited,

With breath bated,

For a little drizzle,

But the Nephelae,

Wasted all of it,

Once again,

On a parade.

So to save face,

They went to their sisters,

The Naiades,

To fill their pitchers.

“Back so soon,” they asked,

Poking their heads out,

From the running rapids.

The Nephelae looked at their feet,

“Use it wisely,”

Said the Naiades.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you”

The Nephelae screamed,

Dipping their jars,

Into the river.

They floated off, toward the forest,

Then the Aurae blew them away,

Over the Amphitheater.

“Now’s as good a time as any!”

And they dumped their cargo,

Onto the concert.

Views From Lalaland

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I’m happy to hobnob,

In the enclave,

Despite the mobs,

And the roads unpaved,

It’s a beautiful place.

Stay away from the villlages,

Those folks aren’t known for hospitality,

Lack dilligence,

And have no mentality,

To speak of.

Climb scenic Mount Delirium,

But don’t read the signs,

And their false criteria,

They’ll try to trick you.

Inhale some helium,

Spin three times,

Stand at the summit,

And survey the land before you,

Beautiful, isn’t it?

Good thing you’ve got no work to do,

Stay as long as you’d like.

Some Inconsistencies

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“Hopeless romantic,” really should be considered an oxymoron.

As should “diet soda,”

And “clean coal.”

Yeah, we drive on parkways and park in driveways, but why is being connected to the Internet also isolating?

Why do people scream when they see small animals but not when they see people that they know (which are far more likely to be dangerous)?

If no house is truly air-tight, then aren’t we always outside?

When can I go inside?

Why do we want somewhere to go when we have nowhere to be?

Why isn’t there anything to watch on TV?

If the point of language is to name the unnamed, why is English so full of misnomers?

Why are there silent letters?

Why do I bother?

Tungsten

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Let there be light,

turn the knob twice.

Curled, coiled,

incandescent filament

glowing white-hot,

between two prongs,

helping us bear witness.

Until it pops,

and everything stops-

a blue spark,

flashes twice as bright,

when it’s burned for too long.

It all comes crumbling down,

both pins drop

all the dancing cherubs

they once held on their heads.

You’re distracted,

by the floating, bluish,

inkblots that slide,

away from your line of sight.

You ask yourself

“how many idiots does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

In lieu of taking a shot

in the dark, you quietly exit

to find a replacement.

Simple 3D Simulations

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What appears to be,

The scene, it seems,

Blinks on the screen.

A wire-frame man,

Faceless, raceless,

Walks toward the door.

Each movement,

Stiff and robotic,

He pauses,

And lifts,

A package.

He pulls a key,

From an unseen,

Pocket.

He slices,

The packing tape,

Opens the flat-flaps,

And out come,

Rubber snakes,

And confetti.

We assume he,

Is shocked,

As he falls,

And rocks,

On the floor.

You turn from the monitor,

And look at the clock.

It took you 13 hours,

To make this,

In 1996.

You win four awards,

Some golf-claps,

And a baseball cap.

Lost in Space

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The whole family,

Can join in,

On this white-knuckle thrill ride.

An action-packed,

Tour-de-force,

About wayfarers in a massive vacuum,

Alone,

For millions of lightyears,

Of course.

What great TV,

With which to live vicariously!

The troublesome son,

The authoritarian father,

The doting mother,

The precocious daughter,

And a robot with a heart of gold.

Staving off boredom,

By playing card games,

And charades,

And moving forward uninhibited,

Except by an occasional asteroid.

Tune in,

Or don’t.