It's Not You

 The sadness I feel today

has nothing to do with you going away

it’s just that I’m sad most of the time

the problem’s not yours, only mine

Bad Breath

 An insult to declare my breath as bad?

Sardines, garlic, onions I just had

Brushed my teeth, but it’s been yore

How can ya tell, passed out on the floor.

Perhaps I’m fitted for a task

Of peeling paint and staining glass

Invite me over when bad company looms

I’ll open my mouth and clear the room

Long

 I don’t like long poems

they bore me

I don’t like a lot of things long

long books

long movies

long flights

long explanations

there’s more but

the list is too long

Ambiance

The sun stares

at me

looking for my blight

It promised not

to judge me

only give me light

The wind says

to me

I miss you

always helped

along the way

and it dried the dew

The trees whispered

I hear

words not spoken

they keep secret

vows made

have yet to be broken

The sky above

calms me

will always be my friend

It never moves

nor quakes

and never ever ends

Wonder Woman; He Said, She Said

 “You sure don’t cook like my mother,” he said.

“Yeah, you can work wonders with an electric can opener,” she said.

McDonalds; Maybe It's Just Me...

 And usually, it is but I went through the McDonald's drive-through. I know what you’re thinking, whatever ever happened, you had it coming to you.

It’s a three-phase process. (1) You order on the intercom. (2) You pay at the first window. (3) You pick up at the next window.

At step 1, the intercom, the person speaking back to me talked so fast I thought I was at a Beijing McDonald’s. Once I dialed them back from 78 to 45 and eventually 33 1/3, I was able to order.

At step 2, a girl with purple hair, studded tongue, pierced lips, and nostrils took my money. Admittedly, though, it’s not that different than seeing a clown with bright red hair and nose, a chalk-white face, and smiling like taking his last gasp of life.

At step 3, which I like to call Death Con 3, a guy appeared in the pick-up window with round spacers in the lobe so big you could drop a Lady Liberty Half Dollar through them. Who could eat after that? In nearly unintelligible language he tells me to pull forward. Apparently, my order was not cold enough for pickup.

At step 4, the bonus step, a guy brings out my order. I hope I don’t reach back too far but he reminded me of the character, Stumpy, from the movie, Rio Bravo (Walter Brennan). 

Gone are the days of the youthful polite young ladies and gentlemen waiting on you with cheerful smiles and buoyant greetings. I miss the nerdy boy and shy girl with the only visible metal being their braces. They were full of hope and enthusiasm about their futures.

What I see now is a collection of misfits who are at the end of their road before taking the first step of their journey into life. It was, find a job or go to juvy. How they manage to keep from falling face-first into the French fryer beats me.

In a generation, we’ve gone from acne to meth sores.

Murder; Maybe It's Just Me...

 And usually, it is but have you ever noticed in every single instance when somebody is murdered, everybody says the person murdered was about to turn their life around? Dang! What bad luck.

The person who gets murdered is often a lifelong drug abuser, in and out of rehab or prison all their adult life. They have a dozen or so failed marriages or relationships. Finally, they meet the love of their life (another loser about to turn their life around), find a job at Taco Bell, and after four tries finally get their GED.

They are found dead in a crack house laying on a urine-soaked and stained mattress. They’re in a room full of crackpipes, used needles, human fecal, and half a jar of Cheese Puffs.

And the media always find a cousin named Delbert who says their life was about to turn around.

The lesson; if you’re a loser, stay that way, cause if you’re about to turn your life around you’re likely to end up dead. 

She Said, He Said: Household Chore

 “Could you please take out the trash, tonight,” she said.

“Sure, where would you like to go?” He said.

Maybe It's Just Me...

 And it usually is but when my toaster finishes toasting, it sounds like the first two notes to Jailhouse Rock.

Allow me to explain. My toaster doesn’t pop up. A small door opens when the time is up and the toasted bread drops out the bottom. The door opens to create one note and closes to create the other. The sliding toast provides background.

Click this link to hear the first two notes.

It disturbs me. I’m the only one who hears it. Everybody else says, “Not really.” Why should that be disturbing?

Read or listen to the lyrics.

Everybody (all men) in the whole cell block

Was dancing to the Jailhouse Rock

And;

Number 47 said to number three

“You’re the cutest jailbird I ever did see

I sure would be delighted with your company

Come on and do the Jailhouse Rock with me”

Even though this song is sung by the King of Rock and Roll and King of womanizing, it’s a bit too gay for me.

So at first because I was the only one associating my toaster’s sound with the first two notes of Jailhouse Rock, I began to wonder about myself. However, when I attempted Elvis’s arm swing and knee dip I pulled up lame for three days.

I think that was my self-awareness telling me there was nothing to worry about.

She Said, He Said; Procrastination

 

 “You are such a procrastinator!” she said.

“It’s not procrastination if you never intended to do it,” he said.