Lousy Poem

I wrote a lousy poem today. I should have just done my laundry and taken a nap. But no, Mr. Literary Gravitas had to create something moving. The only thing that this poem moves is my lunch in my stomach. I have blasphemed the English language.
I tried turning it sideways without improvement. Flat passages, cliches, bad line breaks. I called fellow poet Ronald and read it over the phone. Sounds of regurgitation. Then he hung up. And Ron is compassionate.
Another poet friend told me to send it to the Word Scrapheap Institute in Philly so they can use it as a teaching aid.
Sighing, I collected my laundry and fed it to the washer while reading my poem aloud. A voice came from the machine.
You're NOT going to toss that mess in here with us, are you?

Roadie Blues

I was a roadie for Bruce for over 40 years. I started unconsciously imitating him. I squinted a lot and my voice got raspy. He was such a force.
But as time went on, he toured less and less. I should not have been surprised when I got my layoff notice, but I was shocked. A way of life gone in a moment.
I had to go out and find a new boss. Well, it didn't take me long. She can be brusque and shrill. Wears those out of style pants suits.
My job is to make sure her phone is charged and her ever present husband isn't rubbing people the wrong way. He's very hands on.
Bruce called the other day. I let it go to voice mail. He's a dynamic performer, but I have a chance to go to the White House with this one. I do find my voice sounding shriller than before.

Jung Arm Wrestler

Jung got drunk at a bar and challenged me to arm wrestle. I barely knew the guy, but I'd had a few drinks and agreed. Unlike Freud, who I beat handily, Jung had powerful arms and an iron grip. I knew he could humiliate me in front of the whole place, as patrons gathered around.
If I had just gotten up and walked out no one would have known. Well, I would have known. So we found an empty table and locked grips. Hemingway winked at me. What the hell did that mean? James Joyce stood behind Jung, which, I suppose, meant he was backing him. Maybe bets were on the line. Before we began, Faulkner threw up in the corner. Jung gave me a steely glare. Someone yelled Go! and we went at it. Five, six, eight minutes back and forth, shouts of encouragement ripped the air.
After ten minutes a draw was called. People got bored watching us and returned to their drinks.
This was a memory I'd have to confront. I made an appointment with him the next day to analyze my dreams and maybe have a drink with my unconscious self.

Polypfind

There is a new search engine--polypfind, which can locate polyps in anyone within a five mile radius. It lists number, size and type.
For a fee, Wally promised these people he would share their polyp information. This worked for nasal and colon ones. One could determine who needed sinus surgery and colonoscopies. Of course a good ENT person could go into the nose with a polyp popper laser and solve the problem in seconds.
Cystfinder, another new search engine, was not quite as popular because cysts were not as disgusting as polyps.
Should people buy their own polypfinder search engine? The problem was Frito Eisenberg, its creator suffered from headaches and only created ten. None were for sale.The polyp sufferers envied the cyst people as you might expect.
Wally was lucky enough to own an Eisenberg Model 1700 Cystfinder engine on his laptop. If he could afford a three D printer, he would duplicate it and live happily ever after.

Night Noogies

Eliot Feeble's apartment was infested with Night Noogies. Scientists think they originated in Australia, but that didn't help him one bit. He could  not sleep while they came out of tiny holes and crawled all over him. He couldn't have guests over. His girlfriend quit him after she discovered some on her sweater when she got home.
He had only one choice--call Mabel Castemondo, the Noogie Destroyer. For  fee, she arrived wearing her Noogie Retardant suit and wielding a high tech flame thrower. Before she began her annihilation process, she ordered Feeble off the premises. Then she went to work. It took hours. Neighbors swore death was occurring there, and, indeed,  the destruction was brutal.
Feeble now lives a normal life in comfort. But the hunter part of him misses swatting those pesky invaders with a double wide fly swatter. His girlfriend remains infuriated. She demands to see the dead Noogies.

Sound Bites

As I grow older, I'm less feisty and argumentative. My sound bites have changed. They are more like sound nibbles.
I used to spout things like--You're ignorant. Shut up and listen to me. Been there, done that. Tell me something I don't know.
Now I mouth phrases like--Good point. I never thought of that. That's an interesting slant.You really have your facts straight. Can I get you a cup of coffee?
Even my tone and delivery have mellowed. It's been months since I've thrown a punch. I just realized no one follows my advice, cares about my opinions or respects my world view.
I need to revitalize by jumping into an argument. Something I know lots about, like toasters.
Fool. You are toaster ignorant. That will be my first sound bite.

My Breakthrough

I am six days away from being elevated into the pantheon of  play writers.  My short play will be performed locally by Carl and Virginia, this century's Lunt and Fontaine. Their chemistry, timing, and perceptive interpretation of my text. is exquisite.
The audience will leave gasping. Critics will rave. Parties will follow. Much air kissing and gentle hugging. Finally I will get the respect I deserve.
I would not be surprised if the library auditorium burnt to cinders from the heat generated on that stage. Carl's simmering Brando clashes with Virginia's disdainful Vivian Leigh.
Six more days. In the meantime I will get my laundry done. And wait for greatness.
The play is called Errant Socks. A commentary on then crumbling values all around us.
This is why I write.