Once, he had a goddess
and didn’t know what to do with her
so he squandered her charm
and her beauty and her love.
He wasted the time he had with her,
a thing that could have been inexhaustible
but instead because something
with a distinct extinction date.
He killed a goddess
because he couldn’t handle her
and so they went on their own ways
unhappily ever after.
Before we go any further, however I fit into your plans,
I feel it my duty to warn you: I am a bad man.
I do things a little bit evil. I scheme just a little bit every day.
If people do not agree with my whims, I tend to blow them away.
You should know what you’re getting into. You have a right to bow out now.
Except that it’s very too late for you. You’re a slave to my scheme. This I vow.
Ha ha haha haha ha, ha ha haha ha!
Ha ha haha haha ha, ha ha haha HA!
I’m a dastardly Dan without equal! I commit my worst crimes every night!
And I do all these things while I’m stealing the rings of the widows and orphans I fright-en.
There are few who recall me sans scowling, or shuddering while saving themselves
which gives me a chance to take an advance on what they might have on their shelves!
Yes, some might have called me Space Outlaw, or others the Pompatus of Love
but I won both those phrases since Miller always raises when he’s got a deuce or above.
So try to escape my clutches. You’ll find, my dear, that you can’t.
You’ll be with me always, and find that on all days, you’ll be forced to listen to rants!
Of my genius and cruelty you’ll learn more. Of my treachery and lackeys, as well.
And I hope in that time, you will aid in my crimes, and eventually, befall under spell.
Until that time, I’ll keep you prisoner, a servant right here in my hold.
So as we while these decades away: darling, why are you so cold?
I’m an evil miscreant wrongdoer! Each day I’m the worst I’ve yet been!
But still I cannot help wondering aloud: honey, must you be so mean?
Ha ha haha haha ha, ha ha haha ha!
Ha ha haha haha ha, no, seriously, it’s getting me down.
I made a point to stop buying new books
about forty years ago
when I was reading a fantasy series
and I bought the hardcover
of 13th book in the series new
and realized I still hadn’t read it
when I saw the paperback of the 15th book
selling on the street for a dollar.
I decided I didn’t need to crowd my shelves
or waste my money if I wasn’t going to immediately
be on top of my reading
(I’m not sure if I ever did read that 13th book).
I started exploiting the library system, too,
so that I could share the books with the rest of the public,
since I rarely needed to own the book I wanted to read,
simply choosing to rent the information
for a little while.
These ideas haven’t changed much.
Only occasionally do I feel the need to own a book.
Sometimes, I like to buy them for other people, of course,
and purchasing second-hand is a great pleasure.
Also a pleasure? Sharing ideological priorities with others. I’ll do that whenever I can.
It’s been a while, but it’s coming back to me now.
I’ve been having naked dreams again.
Like, all the time.
I’ve been going to classes
heading out to work
negotiating a busy office,
balls bouncing,
ass proud and true,
never checking who was taking in the view.
I’ve been dreaming of the freedom
nudity affords
hungering for a life without restriction,
restraint,
or an eventual reckoning.
In the dreams
mens are pig.
They notice nothing.
The wimmins, though,
present raised eyebrows and tilted hips.
They suggest acknowledgment
but allow me to continue
in my utterly unclothed approach.
I don’t know why this is happening more
at this point
or why I’ve chosen now to talk about it
but
I’m feeling a little uncomfortable
with the admission
having let it all hang out.
Just a tad
vulnerable,
y’know?
The dog’s name was Conviction
which was really fucking weird.
She made me feel guilty
whenever I saw her at the run
because I kept staring at her owner
in ways that elicited shame.
I was convinced it was obvious
but since I never was called out on it,
I thought maybe I was safe
until I realized that maybe I was so obvious
that both the dog and owner just tried to avoid my errant eye so much
that it never seemed like they noticed anything I did.
So I was never caught for my constant gawking
but the guilt never left me, anyway.
I stopped going to the dog run after a while
at least until I can get a dog
or something that looks like one.
The thing about me is
that there are a whole lot of things about me:
I’m bald and gray
and unemployed and I write
maybe a bit too much
but what else am I gonna do with all this time
available to me?
I have more clothes than I need
but they all seem kinda the same
so I don’t seem like a clothes horse at all.
I’m cheap as a bird
and though I own a little Coltrane,
I’m not a big fan of Jazz.
I spent a lot of time in AntiFolk circles,
even though most people refer to them as antifolk circles
which makes more sense when you spell it than when you say it.
Even then, though, the difference is minor.
I like minors a bunch,
because they’re easier to socialize with
but after seven or so,
the bloom is off the rose
and they get too cool for school,
so screw those kids
(don’t actually screw those kids.
That would be wrong).
There are a lot more things about me
but they become decreasingly interesting
at this point – and since we weren’t exactly
burning up the charts at this point –
it’s probably time to drop off.
Look at you!
You needn’t be so sad.
You don’t have to be down on every frown.
With the proper perspective
you might be able to turn it around.
Napoleon’s Waterloo was also
Wellington’s Waterloo
so wonderful things can still happen to you.
If you believe it, it’s especially true.
If not, there’s not much more I can do.
Why must it always be a competition?
Things needn’t be a race.
We can all reach the top of the hill
achieve greatness in our own unique ways
even by doing similar things.
We needn’t look to each other
to compare – this is unnecessary.
Just tend to your field
and I’ll tend mine
– which is looking pretty fine.
How’d you get those bigass cornstalks
by the by?
Just asking.
Damn!
The dancing man came undone at one.
It’s hours later now, and the sun
has undergone a change and hid.
The day is over and the man’s kid
wonders where his daddy went.
No answers given clearly; the boy is sent
out to quest for his broken father
if only to delay all of his acts of pother.
The son, named Sean, looks headlong for his pa
but everywhere he goes, no one tells him, “Ya!
I know the man of which you speak right now.
He sleeps past yonder gate, and anyhow,
I’d like to offer room and board.
Because there’s naught that you’ll afford.”
No, no one says a word of use to him.
The prospects for this boy are looking pretty dim.
But finally, young Sean has found a lead!
A man seems like his Dad in looks and word and deed
and so the kid goes off to find the man
and bring him home as quickly as he can.
He fights a dragon; He fights a duck.
He makes a wizard look just like a schmuck.
He sees his papa; and they reconcile.
They dance together for a quite long while.
And so they start their long slow travel home.
It will take them thrice the time to roam
and will be a less important tale
that being told, ne’er need be availed.
For the good stuff’s happened; all that’s left is cake.
You needn’t stick so all your thirsts be slaked.
You can go about your business now, my friend.
The dad and son have had a happy end.
Bart wanted to talk to Will
because of his brother, Alvin.
John tried to stop him. I was John.
“You said retard!” Bart shouted slushily.
“What?” said Will.
“In your set,” Bart continued, as I held him back,
“You said the word ‘retard,’ and you totally lost me.”
“Oh,” Will smiled, “Well, thanks for watching.
You can follow me on Instagram.”
Then he returned to his conversation.
“But -” Bart said, but I interrupted him.
“Let it go,” I guided him to the bar and got him a Sprite.
“Limon is the secret of Sprite.”
“Carbonation is the secret of Sprite,” he replied.
“Don’t tell.”
Bart’s brother has Down’s Syndrome, so he doesn’t like the word retard or retarded,
or much of anything denigrating to the differently-abled community.
He wasn’t in a position to express it concisely after eight shots and four pints, though.
And Will looked like he worked out.
“I wanna tell him something!” Bart said.
“Drink your Sprite,” was my best reply.
By the time the Sprite was gone, so was Will,
so the conversation was never completed.
“How inconvenient.” I exclaimed. “Maybe next time.”
Bart tried to agree, but his head was drooping.
We barely chatted about it on the way to the train.
jonberger 