The Truth About Pears

I am trying to prove
to the tyrannical eight year old
with whom I spend my time
that pears are an offshoot of apples
but the World Wide Web
has proven little to no use to me
in this regard.

What is wrong
with this alleged incredible resource
if it cannot help me prove
whatever point I want to make
on any given day?
With the state of Fake News,
I thought for certain
I’d be able to dig up limitless articles
supporting my thesis
that Mesopotamians genetically engineered the pear
from its kissing cousin, the apple,
but I’ve found nothing so far.

I know I can always put up my own website
– the-truth-about-pears dot biz, perhaps –
staking the claim in my own words
but I just figured,
thanks to one million monkeys,
that it would already be in existence.
How disappointing to discover
that it is not.

The Little Tyrant
will never learn the truth at this rate,
and I may have to eat crow
– and buy her candy –
yet again.

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Great Underneath

My father and I
visited Fire Island
one junior high school summer.
We stayed at my uncle’s,
but it was just me and Dad there
celebrating that almost-Autumn weekend.

We sat on the bay
where my dad could sunbathe and I
threw pebbles into
the great underneath
and read some book
about some sorcerer king
and his tragic magical war
to destroy some world or another.

The sun was going down
but we stayed out,
stayed put on the bay
soaking in the rays no longer
but rather, the atmosphere, and
in the distance
on the next dock
I saw a girl that I
recognized from years before.

Alison has been in my grammar school
and in most of my classes and I
had been in her thrall
for most of those years.
Something about her freckled soul
had captivated me for… ever.
Her family had a house on the Island
not far from my uncle.
It was how I’d grown to know her,
and grow obsessed with her
in earlier years
but since Sixth Grade Graduation, I
had seen nothing of her.

She lounged across from us and
above the gentle lapping of the bay
she waved.
The very girl I’d dreamed of
through much of my pre-pubescence
was seeking my attention.

I ignored her.
I continued to focus on the book
which somehow
at the moment
seemed more important
that the girl of my early dreams.
“Blood and souls,”
I muttered
while Alison and her friends tried
with increasing energy and volume
to get me to acknowledge them.

“Do you know them?”
My father asked.
“I don’t think so,”
I replied, and gave a desultory wave
in Alison’s direction.

Decades later
I cannot explain why
I didn’t want to share time
with this girl that had occupied
so much of my mental space
for so many years.

Maybe I was embarrassed
by my prior love
or maybe I merely wanted the hours
with my father on that pier.
Perhaps I feared
that all I had invested in that little redhead
would simply dissipate
were I to experience her
in this latest iteration.
Whatever the reason,
I kept to my pier
and left her alone.

She did the same
and finally Alison gave up,
abandoned her post
and returned to her bungalow.
My father and I
eventually skulked back to my uncle’s,
and I knew nothing more of the girl
for years to come
until rumors got back to me
of her very active
and indiscriminate romantic life
in college and beyond.

I would have liked
to know more about those rumors
but I’d lost my chance
to verify them.

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Parenthetically

There’s less romance in first class
because there’s more space
more opportunity
to live our separate lives
in our own individual bubbles.

I don’t want that for us
because you look special.
You look amazing.
You look like this girl
I knew from college
whom I didn’t sleep with.
You look like you’d like the Doors.

You’ve got no reason to talk to me
and I have no excuse to talk to you
but I do have a question:
do y’wanna make out?
Depending on your response
there may be a follow-up question

(Parenthetically
I don’t think that college girl
I mentioned before
would want to know how many times
I masturbated to her.
Would you?
What if
I had hit a record?
There may be
another follow-up).

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Kill Your Darlings

Sometimes you must give up
your best ideas.

On certain days
you have to accept
that it’s not going to work
that the tone isn’t fitting
or the timing isn’t right
or you don’t have the chops
to execute it.
Some days
defeat is the only option.

Some positions
cannot be taken
and some efforts
have to be scrapped.
It happens sometimes
and when it does
you ought to make the best of it.

Maybe you can cannibalize.
Maybe you can sour grape it.
Maybe you sell the idea to some sucker
and make a mint.
Whatever strategy
that lets you best escape the sinking ship
of the failed idea
is worth considering.

However
I have not yet given up hope
on The Incredible Misadventures of Baby Hitler.
After the success of Boss Baby
it just might be the time for this.

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Efforts

I didn’t thank you
for the napkins you gave me
to sop the sweat from my wettened brow because
in my experience
they leave little pieces of paper
all over my scalp
even when it’s dried.

Your little napkins
cause more trouble
than they’re worth,
is what I’m telling you now
very much thanking you would have been.
I had no interest
in encouraging such absurd behavior
in the future.

Of course
had I just just made the gesture then
we wouldn’t be involved
in this ridiculous conversation now.
So thanks.
Thanks a lot.

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By Gaslight

You’re the type of good
that doesn’t know
how good she is
which makes it easier
for you to accept the attentions
of the mediocre
like me.

I wish I could tell you
just how good you are:
how kind
how sweet
how incredibly capable
and astonishingly artistic
but that would spoil the game
and no doubt
give you the motivation
you so richly deserve
to leave me.

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The Book of Poetry

(For Bernard)
The book of poetry
you just handed me
was boring
and I could not get through much of it
by which I mean
I couldn’t read shy of it.

I wanted to.
I wanted to be impressed by your offering
to receive it in the spirit it was given
and then to have thoughtful thoughts to say
when next we spoke.

I had little to say about the text
because most poetry is boring
and this book
was mostly poetry
so it was mostly boring.
Boring!
I was bored by your book
and I’m sorry
and I wish I had more ability to appreciate that artistic form but come on:
we all know the thing about poetry.

It’s mostly boring.

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Rock-Wood

Across your veins
a tattoo of blood
makes me wonder
if you have something
that you feel
you need to say.

The picture on your arm
may be worth a thousand, but
do you suppose
you can try words now?

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Tinny Dancer

I thought for a moment
that the miniature statue
kept on your mother’s table
was made of iron
or something equally strong.

Imagine my surprise
when wrestling with you
on the couch
to discover the ballerina
could be so easily broken.
Do you think she can be repaired?
Do you think your mom
will be upset
about the death of that family heirloom?

What will upset her more
do you think:
the loss of the dancing figure
or her child’s innocence?
I think I can only take the blame
for one.

Innocence it is.
Good luck
trying to fix the statue.

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An Indecent Proposal

Before anything else
let’s get it out of the way.
We just need to touch
and kiss
and experience each other
just enough
so we don’t have to worry about it
anymore.

Let’s do it once
then forget about it.
We can just get it over with
and get it on.
The nerves will dissipate
the tension disperse
the difficulties between us disappear.

We’ll become free
to worry about real issues
like the economy
or the state of Israel
or inappropriate advances from unreciprocated suitors
or the price of condoms in the neighborhood.
Let’s just do the business
so we can get on with business.

What do you think?
If you’re game,
I’m pretty sure it won’t take up
a whole lot of our time.

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