I wander down a sandy road
while my heart is riven with doubt.
The sunlight seems to shun me.
The shadows smirk at me.
A small green lizard eyes me warily,
and then lays several brown eggs
on a rock --
mocking my sterile condition.
I can never lay an egg,
can never create something,
anything,
worth a second glance.
I know this because I wrote
a poem and mailed it to a
world famous magazine.
Then waited,
shivering like a leaf
caught in a spider web.
Their response arrived six months later.
It was bordered in black.
It came C.O.D.
There was a skull and crossbones on
the back of it.
It read:
"Dire Sir: Your submission
ranks as the most asinine and
discouraging piece of literary
twaddle in the sad sad annals
of misbegotten poetry.
It is so bad that we burned it
and then sealed the ashes in an urn
and sent it to
Yucca Mountain Nuclear Waste Repository
for permanent burial.
If you ever try to write poetry again
we will see to it that your fingers
are run through a lawn mower."
So I wander down this sandy road,
and think to myself that I will use my
stimulus check to buy a commission
in the Swiss Navy, and sail away to the
Matterhorn Islands forever and a day.
I'm known as the "The Little Trees Killer."
Or, rather,
I will be known as "The Little Trees Killer"
once my heinous murder spree is uncovered.
You see, I murdered my first husband
by grinding up a bunch of Little Tree
car fresheners and putting them in the
zucchini bread I constantly served him.
He was a very abusive husband.
He shot rubber bands at me.
He used the dog food to feed the
fish in the koi pond --
so my poor little Fluffy had
to go hungry sometimes.
He chewed celery with his mouth open.
He was just a rotten guy.
I put up with his swinish ways
for two years --
then decided to poison him.
It took fifteen more years to do it,
and the doctors said it was the bus
that ran over him while crossing the
street that killed him --
but I know my special zucchini
bread contributed heavily to his demise.
Just wait till the police find out!
I'm remarried now, but wouldn't you know
it --
my second husband is worse than the first
one --
He wears a face mask to bed;
says it's the only way to slow down
the pandemic.
His mother is always coming over
and making him do handstands
in the living room when I want
to play Uno.
His left ear winks at me.
And he insists on keeping a cheap
pocket watch, that ticks so loud
it gives Fluffy a migraine.
So he's getting my special
zucchini bread, too.
And this time, to speed things
up a bit,
I'm including lard in the
recipe.
well, here it is 5 a.m. on sunday morning -- I don't feel like doing anything strenuous, after struggling to put a turkey carcass in the stock pot to stew all morning for soup at noon. i don't even feel like capitalizing or punctuating this email.
Vaccination passports are a coming thing, I guess/even though they're causing the Right Wing a lot of stress/If you prove you're punctured you can do most anything/But if you haven't got one it will mean a large hamstring.
The White House don't leak gossip like it did in days of yore/when staff would spill their guts to sharp reporters by the score/Biden's folks are silent as the tomb; and that's the rub/Journalists are feeling that they're getting a scoop snub.
Man’s death after taco-eating contest sparks lawsuit against minor league team. (WaPo)
The basics of taco consumption
require some daring and gumption.
The filling you eat
is mystery meat --
the sauce is volcanic presumption.
