one day sale

I stood there looking upon the throngs
of shoes, mountains of them
piled one atop another,
no order or
structure in their lives,
twins who were together at birth
now scattered among strangers.

I stood there and gazed with wonder
at how I was ever going to make a
selection, how was I ever going to find
a pair of shoes to replace my
five-year old,
now hole in the sole,
bottom ripped out,
scuffed pair of my own.

The men surrounding me were like
mad octopuses, with hands
reaching in all diretions
grabbing and pulling at everything
in their path. And I stood there,
motionless, waiting
for the moment of madness
to subside, until I could reach out
my own hands
and take a pair for myself.

And when my turn finally came,
I grabbed from the shelf
brown, leather shoes
with a thick rubbery bottom,
went up to the counter,
paid and took them home,
only to find that my new pair
of shoes were two different sizes.

the muse recovered

I have a muse
and it took me awhile
but i found her
and she's here now
and promised to stick around
for this sitcom i call my life.
I put an ad in the paper
$20 for a spread
i had to be choosy
so this is how it read:

writer seeking muse
on call day or night
whispering in my ear
highly desired
outside beauty optional
inside beauty required

The first one to apply
was smart and quirky
made me feel bonafide
like a real author
mabye be on letterman
or larry king
but she wanted it to be
"all about her,"
it was a short lived fling.

The second one wore high heels
with jeans, which i totally dig
but apparently i'm not the only one
and she left me for another
with a publishing gig.

The third one was too needy
talked about how we'd be together
forever
always wanted to crawl into my lap
and stare into my eyes which
creeped me out after awhile
she tried to get inside my head.

The fourth one was a cutter
convinced that writing born from pain
was the only way to the truth
but i hid her knives
gave her a spoon instead.

The fifth one thought
alcohol-induced ramblings
would put us on the map
with bukowski and kerouac
but i just can't hold my liquor.

The sixth one didn't quite understand
i didn't want to be a rambling man
and she filled my journal with useless crap
so i cut and i cut
refusing to paste it back.

The seventh one always wanted to talk about
politics and picket lines
and how the state of the union is unrefined
but i'm more interested in simpler things
like coffee beans and the taste of whip cream.

The eight one wore black all the time
and talked of bleeding roses and dark red wine
with midnight dances in the park
but i just couldn't see myself frolicing with trees
after dark.

But then, she came along
i knew the moment i saw her she was the one
she knew just what to do
because i had composed three poems
before we were through with the interview
she just sat there and smiled
for she had fulfilled her purpose, too.

in the beginning...

First of all, she didn't want to be there.
Hanging out with her parents was not her idea
of a smashing good time but her dad
always sprang for Belgian waffles on Saturday
and she couldn't pass it up.
Belgian waffles were her passion
the only thing she ever ate that
she truly enjoyed.
She especially loved the way each square
held the melted butter
like a little pool of gold.
The first thing she always did was
dip her finger in the center square
and lick it off real slow
like foreplay before breakfast.
The waiter walked up with a slumpy step
head hung low, like a metal detector
searching for someone of equal intelligence.
He took their orders never writing
anything down, just looking from bowed head
through hung hair, and when all was said
and done he repeated them all back again
with every tone and inflection with which
they were spoken to him.
He lingered for a brief moment on the order
of Belgian waffles, noticing the way she
said, "With a jar of strawberry syrup."
The way her lips pursed at the ending "p" made
him falter for a second, something
he wasn't used to doing.
"She might not be intelligent," he thought,
"but damned if i'm gonna turn down a waffle lover."

the arrival (see previous post)

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
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HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

waiting on the kidney stone

I sit and wait
I sit and wait
I was told it's the only thing to do
just sit and wait
So I sit in the glider
with the country blue cushions
and my legs do the pushing
and my legs do the pulling
as I rock back and forth
as I glide back and forth
and stare at the wall in front of me
at the picture of the flower surrounded
by a field of white
with my third glass of cranberry juice
on the nightstand to my side
as I'm told it's the one thing
that might help when the pain comes.
So I wait for the pain to come
staring at the wall
with the picture of the flower
as I rock back and forth.

That's a novel idea...

See, it's not so much the talking to myself that worries me. Everyone does that once in awhile. No, it's when I start to talk back. It's the conversation I have with myself that keeps me up at night. Is that normal? Should I go see someone about this? No, you're okay.

See what I mean?