Lazy-Girl Job. (Dedicated to Katie Mogg.)

 

In the realm where daydreams take their flight,
There exists a role, so pure delight.
An idyllic post, void of stressful haze,
A 'Lazy-Girl Job' that truly amazes.

In her humble abode, she's found her nest,
Dressed in comfort, no need to impress.
Tasks unfold gently, no deadlines, no haste,
Work flowing like water, no drop goes to waste.

Emails, like birdsong, greet the day,
With words of encouragement that sway.
No hurried frenzy, nor anxious bite,
Just soft screen-glow in the hush of twilight.

The hours are hers to command and mold,
No overtime or tales of old.
A serene dance, her rhythm's own,
In this sanctuary where stress is unknown.

Management, like a cheering crowd,
Voices gentle, never loud.
Praises sung in digital notes,
Fostering success, casting hopeful quotes.

Payment arrives, like the moon's sure rise,
A sweet surprise that satisfies.
In this 'Lazy-Girl Job' of gentle sway,
Each day a gem, in its own unique way.

Thus unfolds this tranquil scene,
A 'Lazy-Girl Job', serene and clean.
A dream perhaps, or so it might seem,
A tale told in a wishful dream.

Incident at Hruska's Kolache Shop. Monday. July 24. 2023.

 

we were up at 5;30 this morning and on our way to the rec center by quarter to six. temperature inside the car was 76 degrees.

once home i immediately got my 'poet for hire' sign and went 3 blocks down center street to Hruska's Kolaches -- where I sat in my wheelchair, trolling for poetry commissions.  about an hour in a guy bought me an egg and sausage kolache, but otherwise it was a bust commission-wise.

even though dozens of people who had just finished the temple to temple 5k walk were lined up down the block to get a kolache. so i had a captive audience . . . but they were all philistines. barely looking at my sign.

still . . .  my sign continues to act as a magnet for the local maniacs.  today's loon was a slight young man with light brown hair who stopped to gaze madly at me and then demanded to know if i thought the provo police were sexist pigs.  i chose to ignore him, turning my head away.  he continued to accost me with growing volume and obscenity until he finally became so frustrated at my silence that he slapped me on the face and then hurried away, still yelling about the provo police and filming himself on facebook (he said.)  his actions upset several small children waiting in line with their parents so they began to cry.  no doubt someone will complain to the kolache management about the incident, getting it all wrong and blaming me for the unpleasantness so that the manager will ask me not to ply my wares there anymore the next time i go back.  i'm glad amy and i are going to the temple tomorrow morning.  i'm getting tired of either being ignored with my sign or drawing lunatics to me like flies.

still, it beats working for a living.

the rest of the day will be spent serving a free lunch of pulled pork with rice and cornbread.  Then settling back with amy (who went to springville this morning to bug goat's milk and shop at the walmart) to watch maybe a dozen or so episodes of the blacklist . . . for the second time.  Oh, and amy did the laundry this morning. i'm wearing a diaper now so that she doesn't have to do the whites quite so often.

isn't life wunnerful?

Heinie Manush.

China fixes her economy. A Fantasy. (Dedicated to Stella Yifan Xie.)

 

 

Upon the dragon’s mighty back, an empire’s weight does lay,
A pulsing heart of commerce, that beats both night and day.
Yet even dragons tire, and economies must bend,
For to invincible wealth, there is no certain end.

An offering to prosperity, a levy on the small,
A tax on sticks of bamboo, that feed them one and all.
Chopsticks, the humble servants, in every noodle's swirl,
Their price now borne by common folk, both boy and girl.

A grumble rises in the streets, a stir in the night market's din,
A tax on such a simple tool, can it be a win?
Their cups of tea grow bitter, their dim sum tastes of worry,
For an economy in flux, makes the future blurry.

Yet in this trial, a purpose, as leaders make their play,
To stoke the fires of industry, in a bold, unyielding way.
A gamble on their future, a bet against the tide,
To fortify their position, and hold their global stride.

The dragon stirs uneasily, sensing the people's plight,
Yet steadfast in its course, believing in its might.
A gambit to reclaim its strength, to bolster and secure,
The wealth of many at the cost, the few must now endure.

Yet chopsticks are more than tools, they are a symbol dear,
Of culture, history, unity, things the heart holds near.
The dragon must take heed of this, amidst its grand plan,
For the spirit of its people, is the true strength of this land.

So here lies China's paradox, in the hands of the humble and the great,
Can a stronger economy, and the people's will equate?
The dragon’s path is arduous, filled with both hope and strife,
In the balance hangs prosperity, the very pulse of life.

Horror Movies. (Dedicated to Stephanie Palazzolo.)

 

 

When shadows danced with dim moonlight, we reveled in our spooky plight,
Screen flickering with monstrous delight, nightmares conjured in the dead of night.
Dracula's charm, Frankenstein's groan, filled our hearts and chilled our bones,
The Blob consumed, the Mummy moaned, youth's laughter met with eerie tones.

In PJ's huddled, faces aglow, we'd journey where few dared to go,
Witnessing terror's grand tableau, amid the flicker of the picture show.
Oh, how we'd gasp when zombies crept, secrets of the undead kept,
The fearsome tales that made us wept, in our minds forever slept.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon, under a melancholy moon,
Struck a note of haunting tune, made us shriek and howl like loons.
Yet, it wasn't simply fear's embrace, but the wonder of that eerie space,
Where we could meet a monster's face, and feel alive in that chase.

Then, beneath the quilt we'd dive, as if to hide or to survive,
Every scene, so alive, made our young hearts strive.
Eyes wide in terror, hearts ablaze, lost in that cinematic haze,
In those times of naive craze, we lived our best of days.

Each monstrous tale, a treasured lore, left us always wanting more,
Sleep would find us on the floor, dreaming of what was in store.
In silver screens of yesteryears, we found joy amongst our fears,
Echoes of those laughter-tears, still resound in aging ears.

Now the reels of time have spun, those days of monsters, fear, and fun,
A glorious era, forever done, under a setting, ghostly sun.
Oh, the tales we could regale, of moonlight monsters, ghostly pale,
In the heart of childhood's tale, our love for horror will never fail.

The Sandwich. (Dedicated to Tim Carman.)

 

 

A noble BLT in daylight's glimmer,
Bacon crisp, lettuce fresh, and tomatoes prime,
Layered in harmony, each ingredient a star shimmer,
In its simplicity, a testament to time.

The fried baloney, humble, yet so rich,
In its ordinary guise, an unsung song,
The sizzle and the scent, a satisfying itch,
In each bite, a place where hearts belong.

Oh, the grilled cheese, a canvas plain,
Bread and cheddar merging in delight,
Golden crust, inside a molten vein,
A comfort clasped in hands so tight.

The turkey club, a tower tall,
A hearty feast, in three-layered might,
Bacon, lettuce, turkey, echo the call,
Of hunger quenched, in day or night.

The hot meatball, a tale of bold,
Marinara, mozzarella, a spicy dance,
Each morsel savored, each story told,
In every bite, an Italian romance.

For in each sandwich, there lies a glory,
Of simplicity and skill, of tale and truth,
An ode to the humble, an epic story,
A timeless testament to the wonder of our youth.

China Smoke. (Dedicated to Lisa Friedman.)

 

In smoky shadows of the east, a dragon wakes, it's feast,
China's industry churns on, unchecked, nature the least.
Smokestacks tower high, belching clouds that never cease,
The sky an open canvas, for its dark and deadly piece.

A ballet of stark emission, where clean air should prevail,
Coal and steel, relentless, paint a sombre, ashen veil.
Factories work tirelessly, in pursuit of growth's Holy Grail,
Sacrificing earth's green garment, as we watch, turning pale.

But let's not point just eastward, blame's a mirror in our hand,
For the problem's not just China, it's a global, burning brand.
Our own consumption feeds the flames, across every land,
We demand, they supply, this truth we must understand.

Yes, China's footprint's weighty, their course dire and unjust,
Yet we all share a role, in this breaking of earth's crust.
A dance of shared destruction, in consumption we trust,
Where in this blame game, ponder, who holds the greatest thrust?

So let's not scapegoat nations, but to ourselves be true,
It's our collective actions, that turn the sky from blue.
With each choice to consume more, our blame too does accrue,
In this tragedy of the commons, we all play a part, we do.

A challenge vast and urgent, in unity we must engage,
To turn the tide on climate change, is our shared heritage.
China, yes, must curb its course, this modern industrial age,
But the blame is ours together, written on the same page.

Barbie for President. (Dedicated to Maura Judkis.)

 

 

In the grand theater of our nation's dance,
Let's elect a leader of charming stance,
Who can rule with joy, radiance, and advance,
Not of brain but a symbol of balance.

No, not the intellectual, not the severe,
But the one with a smile from ear to ear,
A painted grace to soothe, not to fear,
A Barbie for President, let's make it clear!

With her optimism, she'll light our days,
In the haze, she'll find the sun's radiant ways,
No debates, no strife, no political frays,
A beacon of hope in the people's gaze.

Her glamour and style, we cannot ignore,
In the White House, she'll add colors galore,
With a sparkle and glimmer like never before,
A Barbie for President, forevermore.

She needs no brain to lead with heart,
In this complex world, a different art.
Unsullied by scandals or dart,
A symbol of purity, a fresh start.

Against the Raggedy, clothed and bland,
It's time for our Barbie to take a stand,
For a nation of dreams, vibrant and grand,
In her painted smile, we find a land.

So, let's vote, my fellow Americans, let's unite,
For Barbie, our leader, our beacon of light.
With her plastic charm and spirit bright,
She'll lead us with hope, with love, with right.
 

They lost their legs. (dedicated to Jessica Silver-Greenberg.)

 

 

In hushed halls where Hippocrates once reigned,
Unscrupulous surgeons play a wicked game.
Promising cure to those in ceaseless pain,
Yet their actions bring nought but cruel shame.

With scalpel's gleam and soothing words they lure,
Each patient desperate, seeking a sure cure.
Yet beneath their hands, health takes no leap,
Victims crippled, in agony they weep.

The clink of gold, the profit from despair,
A theatre of horror, cloaked in sterile air.
Operations botched, lives forever marred,
A charade, where trust is brutally scarred.

A leg, once strong, now bound for amputation,
An ironic twist to their sworn obligation.
Innocents marred by this malicious greed,
While the guilty shroud their deeds in needless secrecy.

Shadowy giants of medical device,
Entangled in this scandalous vice.
Their truth concealed, their connection discreet,
In this tangled web of deceit, they beat their retreat.

Yet the cries of the victims echo, loud and clear,
A haunting chorus for those who'd hear.
Against the greed, the deceit, the lies,
A call for justice eternally cries.

Oh, beware the surgeon's mask that hides a grin,
The twisted game where no patient can win.
In the quest for truth, may light expose the night,
And bring an end to this ghastly plight.

Bankruptcy. (Dedicated to Becky Yerak.)

 

 

In the chambers of power, they twisted the law,
Where money speaks louder, it's raw and it's flawed.
The little guy's burden grew heavier yet,
In a system of debt, that's cast like a net.

Bankruptcy's refuge, once open and fair,
Now wrapped in red tape, with a cold, stony stare.
For the small, humble debtor, the path is much steeper,
While the rich man's escape grows notably cheaper.

Fat cats in silk suits, they chuckle and grin,
Knowing the laws help their kind to fit in.
They dance round obligations with a sly, cunning wink,
While the little guy's hopes continue to sink.

Once a solace for many, now a game for the few,
The laws that were just are now askew.
The scales of justice seem weighted, not right,
Favoring those who can afford the fight.

High and dry are the creditors left,
Victims of this acquisitive theft.
Yet they're the ones with the strength to endure,
It's the little guy's pain that is harder to cure.

In the dance of the debtors, the music's gone sour,
Echoing the tune of the powerful's hour.
The promise of relief, once real and near,
Is lost in the wind, to the fat cat's cheer.

But let us remember, as the night falls deep,
The strength of the small is not cheap.
For laws may change, and the fat cats may thrive,
But the spirit of the little guy will forever strive.

Editors. (Dedicated to Katie Kokal.)

 

 

In the hush of the creator's solitary night,
A tale blooms, bathed in imagination's light.
Unseen world to paper bound, with words unfettered, free,
Born of a mind, unhinged yet tethered, in sublime soliloquy.

Enter now the editor, with sharpened eye and keen,
Bathing in red, the woven dream, cutting through the scene.
Defaced, the crafted word falls prey to unforgiving knife,
In the name of clarity, it's purged, such is the writer's strife.

Love and loathing intertwine, a tango of the mind,
A creator craves approval, yet to criticism, often blind.
A custodian of language, the editor stands tall,
A necessary torment, the bitterest gall.

Each alteration, each correction, a wound so raw and deep,
Yet in their wake, arises a tale more worthy of the keep.
The editor, like a smith, in the furnace of revision,
Tempering the narrative, with unflinching precision.

To hate is easy, as love’s effaced by indelible ink,
Yet underneath this struggle, a deeper bond, we think.
For both are sculptors of the tale, through tumult and tranquility,
The writer spins the yarn, the editor shapes reality.

So, here’s to the symbiotic dance, entwined in love and hate,
To the writer, the dreamer, and the editor, the slate.
For stories, like diamonds, are formed under pressure's reign,
From chaos comes the masterpiece, from struggle, comes the gain.

In the love and hate that intertwine, a truth rings pure and clear,
Without each other's guiding hand, the story disappears.
Writer and editor, in the dance of creation forever twirled,
In concert, they bring forth new worlds, and thus, they shape the world.