Copy Cat

I used to copy John until he told me to stop following him around and get a life. Problem is I don't have a center or identity intrinsic to me. In fact, I never used that word until I heard my sanitation guy say, garbage is not intrinsically good or evil. There is no past or future. Garbage lives in the moment.
I was thoroughly impressed and began following him around on his route until he got transferred and I slid into depression.
My therapist says I need to discover something that is mine alone and build around that. All I had was my voodoo doll of Ren, a writing machine who intimidated everyone. I stuck pins all over that doll, but nothing slowed her. So I copied her style. Write fast, pause, write fast, pause. Except I had nothing to say. So I copied off Keith, who sat on my other side.
I'm thinking of trading in my Russell duck hunting cap for a wool number similar to what Christina wears because I've never copied anything from her and it's just time.

Cars and Trucks

I once saw a wheel fall off a woman's car right in the middle of an intersection. She got out and smacked her cheeks in horror. I wanted to help, but could only smack my own cheeks in support.
SUV is not a car. It is a symbol of insecurity belonging to people with tiny genitalia, wildly insecure folks who need to lord it over us normal drivers. Many of these bullies could easily become third world dictators.
Regarding trucks, my position is unless you own a muscular, hairy, tattooed forearm you can lean out the window you should not be a truck driver.I, myself, have the forearms of a florist. Nothing wrong with florists. Some of my friends are florists and none of them need to drive an SUV to prove their manhood.

Hidden Identity

Becky rushed into the phone booth, heart pounding. Her cell was dead, she was hungry and thirsty from being on the run for days. She used her last coins to dial. Joe answered.
Oh Joe, I'm in trouble. You have to shelter me. I fell for a married man.
Joe paused. Calm down. That happens all the time. Who is after you?
Becky swallowed. The Bee Hive!
What is the Bee Hive?
Lemonade, Joe, lemonade!
You're not making sense.
Do I have to spell it out? I slept with Jay Z. She found out. Queen Bee shows no mercy. She gave them an order. Oh God, I see them coming down the street! I must flee!
Where can you go?
I don't know. She owns the night, the city Zika mosquitoes, everything. And the worst part--he was a lousy lay.
She hung up and raced off into the shadows.

Three Kids

Mal and his family of rabid, flying squirrels looked down saw three kids tramping through the snow and immediately thought of dinner.
Brooke, who constantly challenged his leadership, protested they were too small and by the time their heavy jumpsuits were ripped off, exhaustion would hit. Mal scoffed that was a result of her not doing the leaping exercises every morning. Are you commenting on my weight? she asked.
Their branch shook slightly, causing snow to fall and the kids to look up. The family remained still. Bart said we need to make a decision or they would starve. These kids were the only humans to pass all week.
On the ground, Willie's little brother had to pee and was told to go in his suit because it was getting dark and they couldn't stop.
Up in the tree, Bart moaned his nuts were freezing. Kanye was infuriated. You have nuts and didn't share them? he asked.
The family continued to argue while the kids moved closer to a clearing and safety.
Maybe there's a happy ending here. For the kids.

Embarrassment

In 1977 as a mailman, I was being walked by my supervisor in Hoboken. No mail truck, just a push cart. We were having a nice chat as I made my deliveries. When I got to the end of the block I saw that the house number did not match the address on the envelope.
 In fact, there was no such house number. It was then that I looked closer and realized I was delivering Garden Street's mail on Bloomfield Street. In my defense, the streets in Hoboken look alike. I had turned down the wrong street.
My supervisor seemed just as embarrassed as me. He said only something about, this is why people lose confidence in the Post Office.
I went back and got all the mis-delivered mail and no further screw ups occurred.
A few months later I transferred out and into another office where I had a jeep and none of the streets looked alike.

Whine Country

The Principality of Kazikstasin was prime whine country. The farmers whined about the drought. Towns people whined about inflation. Children whined about homework and teachers whined about the kids. Writers whined about everything because they're writers.
People were giving each other headaches. When the central government tried to meet and discuss the whining epidemic they were stymied because their offices were being painted. More whining.
Prisoners whined about being falsely accused. Victims complained about being victimized. Religious leaders moaned over the lack of belief. Pets whined over kids grabbing them by the ears.
The only people not whining were liquor store owners who sold gallons of wine to people too depressed to do anything but drink and whine.

Warren and Elise

They weren't working in my play. The chemistry just wasn't there. So I killed them off in a car accident at the end of the first act.
My play had a limited run and closed. I moved on, joining a poetry group. Two of the members seemed familiar. I could not place them.
I caught the couple glaring at me. Was it my poetry? I was feeling uncomfortable. Maybe this wasn't the group for me.
Then I remembered. I had given Warren a gotee and Elise a girlish smile. That couple had both.
I tried not to panic. As soon as the session was over, I excused myself and rushed to the cashier to pay for my coffee. The cashier was a short blonde woman with a birthmark on her cheek. The mirror image of a character I had stabbed to death in my previous play. She smiled without blinking and shivers engulfed me.
Behind me, the couple slid past and whispered one word--Murderer.
Outside I couldn't wait to get to my car.
I suddenly realized why the coffee tasted so strange.
Breathing became an issue as my throat constricted.

Distrust

Why is that cop looking at me? I'm sitting in my car reading the sports pages, idiot. Let law abiding citizens alone.
She settles in behind me at the coffee shop and I know she's peeking over my shoulder at my laptop where I am checking out photos from the new Baywatch movie. Get a life,lady.
I enter the gym and everyone takes note of me, the old guy. No one wants to dress or workout near the old guy with wrinkled elbows, especially the young women. I just want to stay toned. I'm not looking for a trophy wife.
I am squeezed into this tiny room, surrounded by poets who can read my mind. I have to think literary thoughts, nothing salacious or they will report me to that bored, cruising cop outside. Thinking dirty thoughts at poetry meetings is a Class C felony in NJ.
I trust none of them, including the baristas. They're all in on it. I can't flee. I'm trapped. Focus. Think wholesome, poetic thoughts.
I don't trust myself either.

Super Gophers

Blame Joe, the researcher. He spread the word gopher meat was delicious. He then created a GMO, genetically modified organism, mixing a gophers's DNA with that of a giant ground sloth.
The results were huge, ravenous, powerful gophers with energy and sexual appetite ten times that of normal gophers. Once let out into the wild with tracking tags, these beasts went berserk.
They dug giant holes to satisfy their reinforced genetic code. They copulated with insane speed. Soon the continent was covered with gangs of super gophers creating holes that threatened the infrastructure. Buildings collapsed, followed by roads and bridges. People sank into oblivion. The President ordered sniper units and National Guard to hunt these beasts. Citizens stayed huddled inside, shivering with fear.
Joe was fired. The country needed a scapegoat. Now he sits home and broods. He can hear them burrowing at night. His porch has collapsed and it's only a matter of time until his bed will sink into darkness and he becomes one with mulch.

Refrigerator Notes

These roaches are not my responsibility.
These are the Heinz that try men's souls.
These bins are a salad waiting to happen.
These are the greens of my dreams.
These grapes miss their pits.
These mozzarella sticks are dying to be dipped.
These ice cubes shrink in their little squares for no reason.
These fruit bars despise the mozzarella sticks.
These chopped veggies crave a crock pot.
These prunes know their true purpose.
These Gummy Bears feel disconnected.
These slices of bread threaten to mold unless they get some respect.