“Don’t Tell Me Not To Take A Puff”
by Elizabeth Oehlschlaeger
don’t tell me
not to take a puff….
if anything your problem is
that you don’t toke enough
cause what’s killing you
is your lack of sense of humor man
and don’t tell me
when i’ve had enough to drink
it never is enough
if i’m still hearing myself think
and what you think is me retarded,
is me just getting started, yeah
i get down sometimes
i don’t try to knock it
i write a little rhyme
and i see if i can rock it
i don’t really mind
if it’s not what i’m supposed to do
i grow up sometimes
i don’t think i like it
i know life goes by
but i can still try and fight it
i don’t have the time
to be doing what you’d like me to
so don’t eye me
if you don’t like the clothes i’m wearing
i’m sorry if you haven’t gotten past the point of caring,
but i’m sure that donna karan
would be happy if you shared your views…
and don’t expect me to state my opinion
in your great debate on what could be or is or isn’t
i say don’t jack shit up, man,
if you can’t back it up
with what you do
so tell me, baby,
tell me why you’re blue
is the big corporate world
not doing it for you?
well there might be a fix in my little bag of tricks for you…
hey honey, why so sad?
could it be your destiny
is not precisely as you planned?
well i might know a place where you can find a friend…
and that’s Zen….
i see your girl sometimes
i don’t know how she does it
think i’d like it sometimes,
but i know i wouldn’t love it
i got hurt one time and man, that blew it
i see the world sometimes,
i don’t know how we do it
half are trying to help it
while the other half pollute it
got inspired one time,
and thats why now i just say screw it
’cause i love me some absurdity
some anarchy and debauchery
fallacy, philosophy
some bittersweet melancholy…..
and when i wake up,
i try to ignore it
if not, well, hell, i’ll just take something for it
i may not be euphoric but i’m sure i’m better off than you
and i downgrade sometimes to the wrong situation,
but half the fun in life is making our mistakes…
and if we all make ’em, well i wanna be sure
that i make mine good
i’ll be sure to make mine good!
in abscess of intimacy
By David Haase
every morning
meticulously
I brushclean
your titanium
doublequad
pink blade s
specially quipped
with aloe
scented strip
delicately fold then
soapy clipp ingsin
stubblemousse
toothpaste I
brush downupdown
you never let me solly
dalivate your armpit
emotional intelligence at the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory
by David Haase
very good sir,
and what would you
like the card to say?
Hmm, how ’bout this:
Ok, ready.
Think not of these
My darling
As promise ring candies
But rather
A territorial spraying
Of chocolate urine
Affectionately,
Mortimer
“Hits and Errors*(*He Took It In The Asterisk)”
by Jeff Santosuosso
Manny took it in the fanny
And got his 50 games.
The female version, nearly perversion,
The ‘man’ still knows no shame. It was the shots made him happy, not Big Papi,
Or the nappy on his noggin,
With no hits at the plate or in his mouth,
He’d be doggin’ it.
McGwire, the liar,
Now retired, trying to inspire the Cards
To hire him as hitting instructor
Took lady love, our heroine and fucked her,
And Sosa, the heavy doser,
Who in right field stood closer
To his fans, shrunk his two little glands,
Slugged it out one summer.
Attendance rose, they’d pose together
Heroes once, now dumb and dumber.
And Raffy, like a mafi-oso
Testified to Congress,
“I didn’t take ‘roids. You know so!”
Then slunk away in shame.
Former Viagra pitchman, reputation in a ditch man,
No place in the Hall of Fame.
Barry’s denied it. “Never even tried it!â”
Though Conti says he supplied it.
The bigger head, larger shoes instead
Of his earlier days. Nothing fazed him,
Accusations aMaysed him (but not his godfather,
He, the natural bod-father),
His outsized jersey, his maple bat
His size nine hat.
Selig showed him no mercy
When he coercied
With the league’s elite to keep him on the street
And closed the strings of the pursie.
Old Bud, the records fell thud
As the gate take grew like the studs
Whose bodies swelled and wouldn’t tell
On each other.
And Bud soaked up the praise, to raise
The money in summers sunny
And restore the baseball craze.
Old Rocket Roger, pocketed larger
Sums and testified too. He specified
He never took from Brian M.
But Mac said he was lying then.
For MacNamee supplied the stuff
Though Roger denied it and tried to hide it.
Their tired dispute, the facts are moot,
Will end who knows when.
The game endures, our hearts are pure
And unpricked by needles or syringes.
We stick to the game,
Which seedles our dreams and hinges
Only on our ideals.
From Black Sox to Pete
Nothing can defeat
The game that always heals.
Jeff Santosuosso is a business executive and amateur poet (aren’t we all?!) who is trying to sublimate his impulses through poetry. He calls Dallas/Fort Worth his home for now.
“Rage Against Causality”
by James Fluty
The soft tapping of computer keys wrap around each languishing second
Surrounding them like a fog of white noise
If physicists would spend more time in the realm of the spirit
We might explain the mathematical inconsistency of tedious work moving so slowly
Yet destroying one’s life so quickly
And despite this scene rightfully inviting the action
I am none the less surprised by the sound
A co-worker yawns
Following the natural impulse to repeat him comes a feeling of intense, unspeakable anger
I must refuse to return this yawn
I feel the resistance between my temples,
Behind my eyes,
A ball in my throat
A small pocket of chi that make my eyes sting
It would be one thing if he had tied me down
Putting to good use those years of interrogation training
He managed to keep secret from the rest of us
With the use of bamboo shoots and electrodes he would force me to submit on video
Declaring to the world my allegiance to the yawn
But there was only this involuntary suggestion at play
And it alone was enough
to control my actions
This is more than a man needing coffee,
This moment is every moment spent wondering the nature of stimulus
have I never made a single choice in my life?
Do I rationalize as means to my own end?
If these decisions are not my own what meaning,
at all,
could I find?
My life’s works would seem
Stolen by impulse
My jaw begins to quiver
The first soldier to see defeat ahead
And so,
knowing the battle lost
My mouth opens, reluctantly
Exposing to the world
Off-white enameled flags of surrender
I bury my face in my hands
And feel my life mildew and rot around me
The pain is mitigated for a moment
In my daydreams of self slaughter
But, I realize that these thoughts of taking my life
May simply be the result of eating too much sugar
The yawn has stripped even my suicide of meaning
Though it has given great significance to that muffin I ate this morning
As my defeat settles on me like dust
The systematic shutting down of my organs is interrupted by the coworker’s sudden declaration:
“Can’t seem to wake up this morning. Mondays, am I right?”
Maybe
he
is.
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