I want to be a travel agent.
Move my bosses to and fro.
I would schedule all their trips.
I could tell them where to go.
I want to be a pharmacist.
Filling bottles gives me thrills.
I would refill all your prescriptions,
And bring my wife some happy pills.
I want to be a pirate.
Sail across the seven seas.
With a Chihuahua for a parrot.
He’s balanced on my knees.
I want to be a lumberjack.
Wait, that one’s been done.
When I was young,
The only excuse we used
Was “I forgot.”
Later, we graduated
To more exciting excuses,
Like “The dog ate my homework.”
Now, we’re on Wifi all the time,
So, we have rather bizarre excuses,
As in, “The squirrels chewed through the line.”
File this under “Sad But True.”
If you live in a old-tree cul de sac,
There are a lot of squirrels.
Squirrels chew trees,
And things that look like trees.
Phone lines look like trees.
Either that, or we have squirrels
Who are hooked on insulation.
Really? Find a new drug.
Anyway, they chew the insulation.
That leaves holes everywhere.
Everything works, until water gets into the lines.
The insulation is what stops the water.
So, every time we have a decent rainstorm,
The lines get wet and the phone stops.
This is only a problem from March until June.
So, it’s really not worth complaining about.
It’s not like I have to use the Internet for work.
So, the entire house is down.
No phone, Internet or TV.
I guess I’ll read a book.
I hate squirrels.
I have a house,
I have a wife.
I have a happy, happy life.
(Oy vey.)
I have some dogs,
A girl and three boys.
They make a lot of noisy noise.
(A lot. Trust me.)
I eat too much,
My doctor won’t be quiet.
I said I’m on the see food diet.
(Stress will kill me first.)
I write bad poems,
And this is one.
I hope that reading it was fun.
(You’re not getting a refund.)
Happy wife,
Happy life.
So, I guess my life is “bitchy.”
I had a topic for today.
It was really interesting.
Everyone would have shared it.
I would be famous.
Damn.
I just had the bath from Hell.
What can I do to fix this smell?
I wonder if that thing is dead?
I guess I’ll rub it on my head.
That pile really smells like shit.
I guess I’ll have to roll in it.
I have to go and chase the birds,
So they won’t try to steal my turds.
I’m not eating all my day-old poop
I’m just recycling before the scoop.
Mom always yells when I eat crap,
So I dropped a nugget in her lap.
Mom keeps saying “Go away!”
I think that means I have to stay.
I don’t know why we argue,
I don’t know why we fight.
I just remember that you shot me,
Now, I’m walking towards the light.
Another day,
Another flood.
— God
I will build a 100-cubit Ark
In the yard behind my house.
It holds my four fixed dogs
And my pre-menopausal spouse.
We will fill it with supplies,
Dog treats, my coffee and her tea.
We’ll watch the rain waters rise.
Then, it’s down the Trinity.
When we reach the Gulf,
Take a right to Cozumel.
I should have brought a shovel.
Whatever is that smell?
Forty days and nights of sailing.
It’s our longest-ever cruise.
We’ll even have the puppies.
What do we have to lose?
When the flooding does recede,
We’ll recover from the strife.
We can’t rebuild the world,
So, we’ll have a quiet life.
“Let’s go up!”, she had said.
“It’s good for your head.”
“It will help bring you closer to God.”
The ride up was fine,
It took almost no time.
Then she said, “We get to climb down.”
As she started ahead,
I had a feeling of dread.
I followed her down the way.
On the eighth step, I tripped.
I supposed I just slipped.
I fell forward, and landed head first.
I’ve been stuck in this tower,
For well over an hour.
Nobody’s coming to help.
I’ve screamed and prayed,
Tourists behind seem dismayed,
And the line is growing in length.
The tower’s elite
Grabbed my hands and my feet,
They pulled with all of their might.
No matter how hard they tried,
I’m still stuck inside.
They finally went off to lunch.
So, I’m stuck here on my own,
Wedged into cold stone.
I wonder if I will ever be free.
I’ve been so long stuck,
I learned French and German for “fuck”,
But that hasn’t helped me get down.
I’m pretty sure Gaudi
Did not have an “outie”.
This tower would not be so thin.
He drank wine in liters,
He measured towers in meters,
But my inches just won’t fit at all.
From Paris to Plano,
People are mailing in Drano.
At least the public is trying to help.
I awoke with a scream,
It was all just a bad dream.
I will plan our vacations alone.
Every night when I pray,
I give thanks for the day.
I ask for forgiveness of sin.
Then, I say “For twenty-four hours”,
“Lord, protect me from towers.”
Then, I can go off to sleep.
Thirty days hath September,
April, June and November.
Thirty days hath NaPoWriMo.
Thirty poems is a lot.
Thirty good poems may be a bit much to ask.
I may have to go edit a few,
To make them more coherent.
Some, to make them coherent at all.
Thirty has one more meaning.
For the press (old school),
You will see -30- in articles.
It means “The End.”
-30-
(see you next year, or when the fever strikes.)