The Tumor's Tale

Enormous,

Amorphous,

Intruder,

Imposter,

Human virus in a human computer

Imposter,

Intruder,

Amorphous,

Enormous

Mass,

Malignance

Of occluded purpose

Managed to hijack

The body politic,

Make it flail forth and back,

Make it hesitate, agitate, vacillate, attack.

Intruder,

Imposter,

Enormous,

Amorphous

Tumor humorless

Has barely changed the body corpus,

But altered the thoughts it voices

So our oldest friends, loyal and closest,

These days scarce recognize us.

Friction!

Fission!

Delusion!

Derision!

As we hurtle headlong into Hindsight's decision,

The deranged danger deflects our direction, our attention,

Away from a years-delayed, much-needed excision.

Physician,

Heal our nation!

Unoriginal Sin, or The Fashion Victim

She never stood a chance

Against advertisements,

Not because of sexism

or Avenue Madison,

Her mom's shopping addiction

or Disnified fiction
(although they ain't helpin'!)

When Eve chafed against the collar,

Bit deep into the vice that called her,

and really made the serpent holler,

She started wishing Adam

Was, oh, three inches taller.

But Adam wished that Eve

Had lighter, softer, clearer skin

...and then the fix was in.

Beating the Odds (With a Cricket Bat)

The life plan my counselor once made with me

Was to eat and excrete, and then die.

If Mick Jagger can't get any girl reaction,

Then how in the hell can I

Expect to find meaning, do something worthwhile,

Or even know pleasure and joy?

Stand me next to my idols; take a gander, a glance.

I'm a puppet who looks up to boys.

Yet I saw more in five years than some see in whole lives.

I've done things that some folks never do.

Perhaps this impression I've carved of myself

Is too based on a setback or two,

But I'm still on my feet and I'm back on two wheels,

Back with vengeance and vigor and vim,

Writing poems and notes for a novel or two,

Bending volumes and words to my whim.

Yes, I'm beating my odds with a cricket bat's flat,

and I'm hitting all sixes and fours.

If an unpublished poet hits some of his marks,

What's to stop you from hitting all yours?

Two-By-Four (A Drive Through My Personal World)

Racing over night roads in a car that's not mine,

Smacked by musical two-by-fours in four-four time,

I think back fifty pounds ago—twenty-odd years.

I'm still moved by the same wants, the same lack of fears,

and even the music I play is the same.

So every new challenge I shrink from or tame,

The new people I meet in the places I see

Change the length of my story, but never change me,

and the night road I drive? It's a loop or a heart.

When the twists are all totaled, I end where I start.

Sincere Senor Salvador

Sincere Senor Salvador stands on oak staves

While biceps like baked hams hold wrists like his legs

and the fruits of his labors lap over his belt.

I would quite like to ask what he's seen, done, and felt.

What kind of life builds a body like that,

This unique statue in bone, muscle, and fat?

Not his match nor his like have I seen once before,

But his smile I'll cherish from now evermore.

What Broke the Electric Poet?

There once was a poet online

Whose writing was going just fine

'Til he started to teach,

Which did siphon and leach

Energy, inspiration, and time.

Because You Told Me Not To

As pens bleed my passion down surfaces blank,

I realize, for this, that I have you to thank.

How often you told me to stop, don't waste time

Putting ink to my thoughts, to my prose and to rhyme;

Ink not just on paper, but through skin as well,

To commemorate strength fire-tempered in hell.

Skin that covers a body that honed strength through sport,

Spurred on by discouragement. Still think I'm too short?
I my body relax, and muse fuel up, with beer.
You're there, of course, aiming to fill me with fear
That the first time I put twelve-ounce pump to my mouth
Addiction will drive me unerringly south.

I know that you'd have me give up on the ride,

No longer to lean as through corners I glide.

Once some new distraction paves new paths to joy,

Your nasally naysaying you swift employ,

But I write still; I ride still; still love sports and tattoos.

My mind buried in passions, it's kept off of you.