The King
Now perhaps the strangest sight you’ve ever seen,
besides Wonderland and its queen,
was the King with a throne strapped to his back,
barking like a dog and yelling “Quack! Quack!”
Wherever he went he barked like a dog,
lifting his leg and tinkling on logs.
Whenever he yelled, “Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack!”
It meant the pain was too much pain for his back.
But he had to carry his throne. The King had a Kingdom to find.
The locals thought he was just missing his mind,
The King walked for miles, just him and his throne,
which was made completely from dinosaur bone.
The King was searching for meaningful dialogue,
but he could only talk to two ducks and a dog.
He continued to bark and quack like a duck.
Soon, a chicken followed so he learned how to cluck.
All of the animals loved the King.
The King taught them each how to laugh and sing.
But because of the weight of the throne on his back
the King suffered a slight heart attack.
He was in the hospital because of the pain
when the doctors decided to cut open his brain.
All the King said was “Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack!”
because the throne was still stuck on his back.
The King recovered but was never the same.
Nobody visited. The duck came.
He forgot how to bark. He forgot how to quack
shortly after his first heart attack.
The King now walked around with a crack in his crown.
Instead of a robe he wore a hospital gown.
The throne was still strapped to his back,
but the dinosaur bones were beginning to crack.
He needed some help. He needed some power.
He needed a castle with a turret and tower.
He walked around town with his gown and his throne.
He walked through villages and left all alone.
The King was depressed. He didn’t know what to do.
He didn’t have the energy to bite or to chew.
The King marched on, searching for people.
He thought about climbing to the top of a steeple.
He needed to prove that he still was a King.
Carrying a throne is a painful thing.
If the people would listen what would the King say?
What if the King found his castle one day?
“I don’t want to be a King anymore.
I’ll drink at the pub`til I fall on the floor.”
So, the King walked into a dimly lit bar.
With the throne on his back, he looked very bizarre.
He drank a bottle of vodka and rum.
It was sad what the King had now become.
He was slumped in the corner, drool dribbled down his chin.
The King needed a bed at the inn.
The next day, he scratched his head.
He hit his head on the side of the bed.
It didn’t hurt at all. His head was numb.
“That’s why I feel like a old, drunken bumb!
They cut open my brain when it should have been my back,
maybe now I can get my Kingdom on track.”
The King found the reason for his case of the blues.
He was happier than a drunk with a bottle of booze!
He barked like a dog. He yelled “Quack! Quack!”
and the dog and ducks both came running back!
“It’s good to see you! We will find our moat,
but first let’s celebrate with an ice cream float!”
The King and his friends visited the ice cream shop.
The King ordered a hot fudge sundae with a cherry on top.
The ducks were happy. The dog slurped away.
They were having so much fun, they wanted to stay.
Then it suddenly dawned on the King,
one of his friends was suddenly missing.
“Where is the chicken? Does anybody know?
Maybe if I cluck the chicken will show.”
So the King clucked and clucked at the ice cream shop.
He clucked for days. He didn’t stop.
But the chicken was missing. The King was quite sad.
The ducks and the dog felt very, very bad.
“The chicken will find us. I’ll leave my crown.
He’s probably lost somewhere in town.
I’ll rub the cown all over my feet.
He’ll smell my scent and that’s how we’ll meet.”
The King removed one of his slippers.
His toes were shaped like pinball flippers.
His foot was rotten like marmalade jelly.
The dog and the ducks got sick to their belly.
The King dropped his crown, then bought some flowers
before he searched for his castle with towers.
The flowers covered up the stinking scent.
He carried them with him wherever he went.
Finally, the King had walked his last mile.
He saw a huge castle on a small little isle.
“That’s it! We’ve found it! A castle at last!”
“Where’s your crown, King? Not so fast.”
“Whose voice was that? Is there somebody there?”
“Your chicken is here. He says you don’t care.”
In a spire’s window way up high
was a small, little man eating some sort of pie.
“Is that true, do you care? Or are you only a King?”
“Of course I care. Why would I do such a thing.”
“If you care then cluck. Can you cluck?” asked the man.
“I’ve clucked most of my life, of course I can.”
But the King couldn’t cluck. Neither could the dog or the duck.
No matter how hard he tried, the King couldn’t cluck.
“I believe you,” said the man. “I like chickens, too.
This one would taste great on my new barbecue.
I love to eat chicken and this one is so plump.
When you cut off the head all you have is a stump.”
“Why are you doing this? Is this your castle?”
“A castle,” said the man, “ is such a big hassle.
This isn’t mine, but it could be all yours,
But there’s only one window and there aren’t any doors!
There’s no way to get in and no way to get out.
The inside is built like a roundabout.
Life is a maze. A paradox at times
filled with the middles of riddles and rhymes,
and just when you think you’re approaching true pi,
you’ll find there’s more to this castle than you or I.
It’s a big place, it’s a big castle. It’s been here the whole time.
You look like you could use a lemon and lime.”
The fruit was thrown to the King down below
The King bit into the fruit and his throne was aglow.
“I know you mean well, King. That’s why I am here.
You are in my gondola and I am the gondolier.
Think about your life for a moment. How does it make you feel?
Will your dream ever come true? Is it make-believe or real?”
The King didn’t say a word. He was silently amazed.
He just stared at the little man, confused and very dazed.
The little man giggled and laughed.
In his pocket was a small little craft.
“I have a radio snug in my hand.
It’s the only one like it in the land.
I turned up the frequency so it’s time to embark.
Your duck will quack and your dog will bark.
The chicken will cluck but he’ll stay behind.
He’ll live in this castle. He doesn’t mind.
You come with me, King. People need to meet you,
Anyway, the place where we’re going has a much better view.”
The man turned a dial on his radio and the antennae zoomed into the sky.
“Hold on to your throne King! I don’t know if the King is supposed to fly.”
The King was shrinking rapidly as he floated through the air.
He landed next to the man on top of the castle and sat in his favorite chair.
“Comfortable?” said the man. “I’m finally sitting my throne!”
“We must leave at once,” said the man. “You and me are now alone.”
“But what about my ducks and dog? Don’t you hear them bark?”
“There’s only room for you and me. I do not have Noah’s Ark.
“There’s only room for you and me. I do not have Noah’s Ark.
The ducks and dog will find us. I have faith they’ll meet us there.
Wherever However is not far away.”
“Wherever However where?”
The King and his throne were up in the air, soaring like a bird,
and the King was holding the little man. No one said a word.
The Priest
Next was the priest, peddling nail files and saws
and furry ashtrays made from panda bear paws.
He had connections in Kenya with poachers and thieves.
He sold tusks of ten ton to all men on their knees.
Father Stratford Von Avon he liked to be called
by the pathetic, pulpital people he lined in his palm.
“The future is plastics,” at sermons he’d holler,
“so buy my plastic Jesus figures for three measly dollars.”
These he sold until he sold out,
when every dashboard in Kartown had Jesus as a scout.
But the people wanted another Jesus.
Another Jesus? Could they be serious?
Evidently they weren’t buying stock in their morals,
so the priest made ten thousand Jesuses from jelly-brain coral.
“There. There. A Jesus made from the brain of an ocean rock’s expense.
Yours, my people, for the paltry sum of ninety-ninety- dollars and ninety-nine cents!”
And how the people all wooed with Ah Ahs! and Oh Ohs!
at each jelly-brain Jesus in a crucifix pose.
“Buy them quickly, I say. Not one will be left.
I warn you this Sunday they’ll be gone I suspect.”
And the priest kept his word. Not one Jesus was around,
but neither was the father who suddenly skipped town!
He left all of his followers and took all of their loot
to Sicily, Italy, just off of the boot.
He had bills to pay from all of those Christs
that totaled thousands of dollars too much worth the price.
And that coral expedition, in the Jelly Brain reef?
That was worth one million more clams
than the priest could ever scam.
But Pisa was grand. The Vatican, too.
He visited David and Cicero’s tomb.
And then on to Paris, to England and Spain.
He traveled by boat, by plane and by train.
The priest kept running. There was no turning back.
He knew the police were right on his track
so he sailed to Samoa, to Tuvalu too,
to Fiji, Tahiti, to Lima, Peru.
He sailed where he could,
when the weather was good,
on a boat made from planks of petrified wood.
He sailed from Belize to Bermuda in a day.
He sailed a hurricane into Chesapeake Bay.
The boat washed ashore. The mast was torn down
so the priest climbed out and walked into town.
He was soiled and tired but found a pay phone.
He dialed a number...but God wasn’t home.
He dialed another long distance chum.
The Devil picked up but said no one could come.
The priest gave up. He had no where to go
so he got back in his boat and started to row.
He rowed to the middle of Chesapeake Bay.
He rowed and rowed ol’ any which way.
He had no kingdom, no power, no glory no `vane.
The sky opened up and it started to rain.
It roared and it poured and it thundered some more
then the ocean swallowed both of his oars.
He let out a wail, “Now what do I do?!
My compass is cracked and I haven’t a clue!”
“Well I might know where to pay the piper,
but I’m afraid the cost is one dirty diaper.”
“Who’s there? Who’s there? Am I hearing voices?”
“Perhaps reality depends on your choices.”
“Who’s there? Who’s there? Am I going mad?”
“My radio says you’ve been pretty bad.”
“Who are you? Where are you? What do you want?”
“Is this a quiz on Neitzschze and Kant?”
“This is my ship! I’m here all alone.”
“Not anymore. We met on the phone.
They call me `Collect.’ `Hang-up’ for short.
Your ship never made it into my port.
I’m sorry the sailing took you so long,
but I’ve been trying to find out just where you went wrong.
My radio will tell me. Just give me some time.
The songs will tell me the scene of the crime.
I thought so. I knew it! It was in the Pacific
but don’t worry now `cause things are terrific.
However, Padre, only one thing is true:
your compass is cracked and you haven’t a clue.
And that part about paying your debt to the piper?
Well, some men confuse the cloth with a diaper.
Please take it off. It was choking your neck.
Maybe we’ll use it to swab up the deck.
Who knows? Who cares? Isn’t that true?
Maybe somebody cares about you!”
You could see by the sweat and the tears in his eyes,
the priest thought he was dead and this was the prize
so he took off his cloth and tossed it aside.
“Very nice,” said the voice, “now let’s go for a ride.”
The priest turned around and looked down at the man.
A radio was glowing in the palm of his hand.
“Don’t mind me. This happens sometimes.
My radio glows when it works overtime.
I installed extra buttons to soak up the sun,
but now sunflowers grow from 100.1
100.2 takes care of the moon.
I think sunflowers are due there anytime soon,
which explains why I’m here and why we must go.
If I don’t change my batteries nothing will grow.
The sky will turn yellow. The sun will turn blue.
The stars will all vanish along with the view!
So hold yourself steady while I wiggle this knob.
I know what I’m doing. It’s part of my job.
In a matter of moments your body will shrink,
your mind will seize and your boat will sink.
The waves will slosh and swallow your sail.
Your oars can tell you the rest of the tale.
You might feel a sting, a tingle or prick.
You might feel flimsy or a little bit sick.
You might need a carriage, a cradle or crib.
You might need a bottle of bourbon and bib.
It’s all quite natural. Don’t be afraid.
The feelings depend on the songs that are played.
The radio knows which buttons to press.
I’ll explain later when it’s time to confess.
Get ready, my friend, we’re on 80.2
and I think the next song is dedicated to you!
The clouds swirled overhead. The wind roared like a beast.
The little man laughed and shook his head at the priest.
“Are you ready? Are you ready?”
“What do you mean?!”
“I’d like the next dance if you can hold the boat steady.”
The boat was sinking. “I don’t understand!”
“It’s all quite simple. Please hold my hand.”
The Priest skidded over to the edge of the boat
and there was the man in a tiny mink coat.
He was smiling like always, wrapped up in joy.
His boat was no bigger than a small child’s toy.
The priest bit his nails then offered his hand.
“As soon as I touch you, we’ll both be on land.”
And the little man touched the priest on the wrist
and said, “Back at the cactus, we’ll dance to the twist.”
The Boxer
A large knuckled knock was third at the door.
It was the big bellied boxer who carried a sword.
He had white leather shoes laced up to his knees.
A tattoo on his thigh was written in Chinese.
His shorts were pine green, like a fresh Christmas wreath.
Stitched on his side was a white leather sheath.
He was cloaked in a robe polka-dotted with globes.
A crucifix dangled from one of his lobes.
His first name, well, by tale he will tell.
His last name, well, it’s just too tough to spell.
He thinks this is why his bride ran away.
Then again, some things in life are just too tough to say.
He rolls his own. About two packs a day.
But he’ll quit before a fight if he can’t find a light.
He knows the commandments but tends to amend.
Here’s how he’s broken each of the ten:
Rocco Marsali he killed in round seven.
He stole a corvette when he just turned eleven.
Every Sabbath he worked on building his house,
then he dined Mrs. Von Vixon who wasn’t his spouse.
Neighbors or friends, of yours and mine,
were the husbands and wives that he wined and dined.
He enjoyed kissing cheaters, it was his type of thing.
He’d throw all of the truth right out of the ring.
His forehead was sloped like a chimpanzee’s.
His nose was more like an apostrophe.
The boxer wasn’t baptized at birth.
Unplanned by his mother was his life on Earth.
No father who fostered. No mother to care.
Just a little old lady he called Auntie Bear.
A cross that he made hung down between breasts.
On his head he would stand to take a quick rest.
Mohammed he preached was the man of great spirit.
A living legend exists to those who revere it.
“Oh, Lord!” was always his slang to be slew
whenever the boxer began a round two.
“Old Faithful” he brewed as his homestyle stout.
On the wagon he’d hop when his hopps all ran out.
Jaws like a nutcracker’s could chew through a brick wall.
His head resembled a billiard hall ball.
Opponents he had; the mirror always contended
with too many challengers, or so he pretended.
The ropes he knew more than the ring.
He questioned his corner and those types of things.
No stool could stand his weary, beaten soul.
Years of boxing had taken their toll.
No water could quench his mightiest thirst.
A river runs dry when the desert drinks first.
No trainer to train, no medicine for pain.
There was never a crowd to entertain.
No press, no cameras, not even a ref,
just cherry red gloves on his right and his left.
Day after day, night after night,
in front of the mirror he’d put up a fight.
He scored his own judgement, a loss or a tie,
then he’d crouch in his corner to whimper and cry.
He ran out of steam. No effort was enough.
Boxing yourself is difficult stuff.
He wanted a knock-out, just one simple one.
But the boxer knew it could never be done.
So he went for a walk one summer day
to wherever however any which way.
Why would the boxer do such a thing?
It’s hard to explain if your not in the ring.
So after he hung up his gloves on the edge of the stairs
the boxer began walking any which where.
He hiked over green mountains, under shades of sky blues,
searching for wherever however in white leather shoes.
He marched under moon, slept away `neath the sun.
Five days passed. The boxer saw no one.
Then one week later he wished for some wine
and saw nailed on a cactus a crude, little sign.
He could see what it said through murky moonlight,
“To WHEREVER HOWEVER up ahead make a right.”
The peculiar directions were not all to be seen, but Alas!
A cup of ice water in a tall-looking glass.
He knelt down in the sand, hesitant at first,
but found the water, like wine, was quenching his thirst.
He quickly searched for the sign’s allusion
hoping the desert had not feigned an illusion.
“I think I’m near. I think I’m there!
But maybe I’m not any which where.”
The boxer explored for forty more days.
There was no sign of WHEREVER HOWEVER any which way.
The searching was fruitless. The sign was a hoax.
A funnyman in the desert enjoyed playing jokes.
So the boxer sat by the cactus in silence,
once again in his corner without any guidance.
The boxer knocked himself out, a loss for the day.
The tears began falling every which way.
Then the door opened. “Why do you cry?
Is the answer in Chinese upon your thigh?
Please, make yourself at home, my friend.
You’re weary walking may never end if the choice you always make
is the choice you never take.”
From inside the cactus appeared a small man
with some kind of radio held snug in his hand.
He was no taller than a needle with a thimble on his head.
The tiny man was levitating upon a spool of thread.
He was floating above the desert sand and said,
“This simple single spool of thread
is your magical, mystical sled.”
Now a bit confused was the boxer with no tool to comprehend,
reason being the lack of school after the age of ten.
“My words don’t bolt your brain, my friend?
Such a shame in life’s little game, is it not?
When the words we use blow many a fuse and the bulbs we must unknot.
Enough! Enough! The heat is too hot!
A button for you will do.
This big bluey one I think should be fun
for your wisdom teeth to chew.”
Then with no time to spare, nor watches to care,
the tiny man sang a quick song
then pressed on his radio, a button we all know,
and the antennae grew three miles long!
“How’s that, my friend? Are the frequencies channeling nicely?
Such a neat little lesson the teachers never tell
is the shorter the wave the longer the spell.
In a matter of moments your brain will be charged,
your eyes will be glossy and your heart will be enlarged.
Your worries will whither, your lips will quiver,
and your spine will shrink right on down to a sliver.
Your feet will be covered in ruby red slippers
and your legs will be wearing purple-polka dotted knickers.
And if this radio works like it should,
your head will feel like a hollow hunk of wood.
Do you feel it? Do you feel it? I knew that you would.
This button works wonders when the sound waves are so good.”
And the boxer began to shrivel and shrink
in proportions uncivil a doctor would think.
His head size and spine quickly declined
into a button and thread - in the nick of time!
Then his legs and his feet were as small as a toad’s
with ruby red slippers covering the toes.
And those knickers you ask, with the purple polka dots?
They fit just like that! Can you imagine not?
“Very nice.” said the man, “This radio works well,
so I’ll change the channel and fix my lapel.
Now, my friend, you can follow me
into the middle of the riddle of this mystery.
And fear not, my boxing friend, though things right now seem strange,
you’ll find WHEREVER HOWEVER to be a home for all the world the same.
So upon the little ship of spool
the boxer sat like a toad on a stool.
“Very nice,” said the man, “your company is sweet.
But sour’s the smell from the sole of your feet.
Very well, though. We’ll take care of that.
The desert was never meant to be a neat-feet habitat.
So just sit upon the spool. We’ll wash in the cactus.
A clean slate of soles just takes some soap and some practice.
But for now, Mush! Mush!” the man yelled to his spool,
as if it were powered by a four-lettered fuel.
And low and behold the commands were the charm
for the four winds to sprout invisible arms
that carried the boxer and mushkateer
through the door of the cactus like a horse would do his charioteer.
“Enjoy the ride, my boxing friend.
WHEREVER HOWEVER is inside around the bend.”
And behind the cactus door they zoomed,
each no bigger than a wild mushroom.
The Teacher
She was sitting at her desk, chewing on crayons,
while the children were blowing spitballs with her lesson plans.
Maintaining control was not one of her traits.
She loved a game of Bridge or a game of crazy eights.
The Teacher was so old that flies swarmed around her arms.
It was often her students who pulled the fire alarms.
But she loved her profession, her students, too.
There was always something exciting and new.
A day off here, a day off there,
bubblegum and lessons plans stuck in her hair.
She specialized in Math, Art and Science.
She was a big fan of the New York Giants.
Her husband, Walt, used to play.
He died last year on Thanksgiving Day.
But Math was her favorite, if she had to pick.
She never missed a day of school due to being sick.
For 50 years she taught at the same school.
She thought of the brain as a unique thinking tool.
So why would she leave? She was asked to resign
for beating a student with an exit sign.
She snapped in a rage when the student had no clue
what the answer was to 2 + 2!
It was the lack of attention that drove her crazy.
The kids in her class were just so damn lazy.
The Teacher wasn’t perfect, she had her faults.
She blamed herself for the death of Walt.
She did the best as a person. The best that she could.
As a wife she did all that she should.
But ever since her husband died,
at lunch time she just sobbed and cried.
The teacher remembered what life used to be like.
She used to ride her own motor bike.
Now she was a widow and out of a job
so she went to work for the Chicago mob.
They gave her a name. They gave her a gun.
They called her “Old Granny” or “Grandma the Nun.”
She drove around in a big, black Sedan.
You could say this is where her troubles began.
The car was nice, the windows were tinted,
but the mob wanted her to kill, or that’s what they hinted.
She couldn’t pull the trigger. Instead she cried.
Her aim was awful. The Teacher was cross-eyed.
So she ended up selling watches on the street
with nothing to drink and little to eat.
The mob thought the Teacher was a spy
for the Chicago Police or a daring private eye.
On her resume she wrote down she liked to play cards,
so the mob gave her two bodyguards.
They put her in a room. It was a casino underground.
If she was a spy, she would never be found.
She became a dealer. The best at blackjack.
Her mob career was finally on track.
She could shuffle and deal with only one hand!
The clientele thought Grandma was grand!
The stakes were high, five hundred a pop.
Of course the mob always came out on top.
“Grandma the Nun” was the mob’s best dealer.
Most of the Mob thought she was a spiritual healer.
She was the best blackjack dealer you’d ever seen.
She took everybody’s money. She wiped the place clean.
But it was time for the Teacher to move on with her life.
She missed not being somebody’s wife.
So early one morning she snuck out of town
disguised with a wig and dressed like a clown.
She thought it was time to cleanse her soul
with the thousands of dollars of money she stole!
The mob caught on. They put a hit on her life.
They wanted her killed with a Swiss Army knife.
But the Teacher was quick. She flew like a stork
and ended up on the city streets of New York!
She changed her name. She had surgery done.
The Teacher looked like she was twenty-one.
She went back into teaching, she kept the wig.
She taught at a college called “The Thingamajig.”
It’s classrooms were filled with vending machines
that sold Reeses Pieces and Mad Magazines.
The Thingamajig was a real popular school.
It’s fight song were the words of the golden rule.
The Teacher taught the Science of Humanities.
Her students nicknamed her Mrs. Hercules.
She earned the respect of all of her kids.
She took them on a field trip to the Great Pyramids.
They saw the Sphinx and they were at King Tut’s tomb
when a little man said, “Mrs. Hercules, I presume?”
He was sitting on a camel, all the students were inside,
when he proposed, “Love is my treasure. Won’t you be my bride?”
Now the Teacher was no dummy, was this man a mirage?
He was dressed from head to toe in desert camouflage.
“Now I know we’ve never met. How could I expect an answer?
In the meantime I’ll continue working on my cure for cancer.”
There was nothing between them except for the sand
and the radio the man held in his hand.
His camel was huge. He had some water at his side.
“I’ve got to go and get my kids. I think they’re stuck inside!”
“You’re so tender. So lovely. I love your matching purse.
But I’m afraid your students have all disappeared; the results of King Tut’s curse.
Don’t worry, I’m here, your knight in shining armor.
I’ve been told I’m more than that. I’m really quite a charmer.”
“Who are you and where are my kids? I need to get them back!”
“They’re safe and sound. What you need is an aphrodisiac.”
The man smiled and pressed a button on his radio
and in the middle of the desert it started to snow!
“What you need is someone to keep you warm
and take you away from this snowstorm.
What do you say? You and me
a cactus, a fire, and a marriage decree?”
The Teacher’s lips began to turn blue.
Her camel was frozen. She didn’t know what to do!
So she smacked the man with her purse
and cracked his radio! This only made things worse.
“Congratulations Teacher, what a fine stunt you’ve done.
That radio controls the Universe. Luckily, I’ve got a spare one.
I try to be nice. I am a nice guy, but you don’t like me I can see.
That’s fine. That’s all right. You’re going to see just how nice I can be.”
Suddenly high up in the Egyptian sky a vision appeared to the teacher.
It was a movie as clear as could be. The movie was a double feature.
It was the Teacher and Walt dancing in love on their wedding day.
The Teacher was crying tears of joy. She didn’t know what to say.
The second film was the day the Teacher would agree
was the second happiest day in her life; earning her Teaching Degree.
“It’s all on file. I have the rest at home. Now will you come with me?
I need you to teach a course to some friends on Love and Humanity.”
By now the Teacher was speechless and the snow had turned to sun.
“If you come with me I promise it will be a whole lotta fun.”
The Teacher nodded, fixed her hat, and dismounted off her camel.
“Love is a wonderful thing,” said the man, “Too bad it doesn’t come with a manual.
Now hop up here, on one of these humps and I’ll shrink us down to size.
The wind’s gonna blow and the sand’ll pick up so be sure to cover your eyes.”
The man fiddled with his buttons and the camel flew over the Middle East.
The man told the Teacher about the Boxer, King and Priest.
But the two didn’t talk until they landed at the cactus and Teacher didn’t seem to mind.
And back in Egypt there was a broken radio and ten students for an archeologist to find.
The Astronaut
He was laying down comfortably on a green-leather couch
talking to his psychiatrist, Dr. Finkle Von Ouch.
Chewing on a pillow, his parachute patterned like the stars,
the astronaut suddenly got an inkling to show off his scars.
“This one on my arm is from the Space Shuttle.”
“That’s very nice. Very nice,” was the doctor’s rebuttal.
“This one on my stomach is from liposuction.
Would you like to see the one from the alien abduction?
It’s here on my forehead. They drilled into my brain
and stuffed my skull with pink cellophane.”
“I see,” said the doctor. “What age did that occur?”
“You’ll have to ask my friend. He lives on Jupiter.”
The astronaut used to be a quite normal fellow,
as the grass is green and the sun is yellow.
But all of that changed on the Fourth of July
when his spacecraft exploded and fell from the sky!
He made the spaceship in his own backyard
from one million aluminum cans and twenty-two decks of cards.
He got up as far as 10,000 feet!
Then the spacecraft broke apart; it began to overheat.
The astronaut ejected and his parachute deployed,
but he landed in the office of a look-alike Sigmund Freud.
“Did you always want to visit the stars, Mr...Mister...?”
“Mr. Astronaut is my name,” and the Doctor stroked his beard,
not at all thinking that the reply was a wee bit weird.
“There is no other reality; billions of points of light.
Every star is a beacon, like a lighthouse lights up the night.”
“But can’t you see the stars from the ground?”
The Astronaut was confused; of course he could.
Was this enough? Should he retire? The doctor thought he should.
“Mr. Astronaut, forgive me for thinking. You may find me absurd,
but you are a human being, not a trans-gallactic bird.”
The Astronaut was crushed. Another fall from the sky.
Could he ever build another spaceship? Would he even try?
“Doctor, when I was younger I had a hunger that outweighed every star in the sky.
Now that I’m older I wish that my shoulders could flap so my arms could fly.
But I can’t, because of people like you telling me what I can and can’t do.
Maybe if you flapped your arms, Dr. Von Ouch, you’d see that you can fly too.”
“Mister Astronaut, I’m only suggesting that you find...”
“Say no more, Doctor. You’ve been really quite kind
but I have stars to visit and a spaceship to build. Nothing can get in my way.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, Doctor, how much do I owe you and where do I pay?”
The Astronaut paid for his one-hour visit and Dr. Von Ouch said, “Good Luck.”
Then the astronaut held onto his parachute and hitchhiked a ride home from a truck.
When he got home the first thing he did was open his box of tools,
but there was nothing in the box except for a dozen tiny spools!
“That’s strange,” thought the Astronaut, “I don’t remember those being there.”
Wrapped around each tiny spool was two feet of horsehair.
“Who put these here? I wonder who?” Then the Astronaut noticed a rip.
His parachute had a hole in it. That was more important than the spaceship.
He fixed that, and dabbled around the garage looking for scraps
when he found directions for old spaceship kits and dusted off old astrological maps.
There was a kit that he liked. He was sure it would succeed.
It was a spaceship made from watermelon and pumpkin seeds!
“That’s it! That’s what I need!”
The astronaut shouted, “Let the building proceed!”
Would the Astronaut finally defy the gravity of planet Earth?
Well there was one slight problem; how much is a pumpkin really worth?
The Astronaut had no money. First Fidelity can vouch.
The Astronaut gave his last nickel to Dr. Finkel Von Ouch.
Pumpkins and watermelons might as well be gold.
The Astronaut couldn’t afford one spore of mold.
“I have no money so I’ll use what I can.
For a steering wheel, I can use my old frying pan.
And those spools, they’re all empty. They can be my dials.
I’m sure I have some empty pill vials.
That’s my dashboard. Now what else can I use?
With Yesterday’s newspaper I’ll make tomorrow’s front page news!
Papier-mâché! I need some flour and water and a great big balloon!
I’m gonna fly so high I can kiss the moon!”
The Astronaut began building and build it he did!
His spaceship was as marvelous as a Great Pyramid.
It had wings and a tail. It looked like the real thing.
It was even decorated with ribbon and string
and drawn on the side were two tiny stars.
In-between them it said, “Listen to your dreams. They follow you wherever you are.”
The astronaut hopped inside his Dream Come True.
He wore his helmet and goggles and parachute, too.
He waited and waited for a big gust of wind
to carry him skyward like his favorite Zeppelin.
He waited and waited, then he waited some more.
There was no wind. No problem. It had happened before.
The astronaut was patient. One day the wind would blow.
He waited through rain, sleet, hail, and snow.
The astronaut waited one full year.
You’d think he’d find another career,
like plumber or salesman. He used to sell cars.
But the astronaut was determined to see the world’s stars.
So he sat in his yard, strapped into his spaceship.
All the wind had to do was blow, flip and dip.
But there was no more wind. It was gone for good.
Every tree limb was still in the neighborhood.
Where did it go? The astronaut wondered.
Earth without wind is like lightning without thunder.
The astronaut prayed, something went wrong,
was the Earth against him all along?
“I can’t believe this is happening to me!
The Earth is supposed to be my friend, not my enemy!”
The astronaut cried and the wind still didn’t blow.
His goggles fogged up. He had no place to go.
He took of his helmet and wiped a tear.
Then something on his dashboard began to appear.
It was crawling out from an empty pill vial
the astronaut used as a wind indicator dial.
It was a small little man as skinny as a pencil.
In his hand he held some kind of utensil.
He wore a tiny tee shirt that said, “To the cactus or bust”
and a very small helmet that was covered in dust.
The man was no smaller than the empty pill vial
and he said, “I’ve been here all of the while.
You haven’t even touched a spool!
Isn’t that the first thing they tell you in school?
Preparation and double-check is what we need to do.
Flying with me is a one way avenue.
I am your co-pilot. I’ve been here all along.
I’ve got this radio. Would you care to sing a song?”
“Who are you? What are you? Where did you come from?”
“I escaped from the kingdom of fe-fi-fo-fum.”
“But you can’t stay here, there’s only room for one.”
“In that case I’ll sit on your lap when I’m done.
Let me explain. Destiny is controlled by these twelve tiny spools,
the one’s that I’ve left you in your box of tools.
I’m glad that you’ve put them to some kind of use.
The dashboard is perfect. Now, there can be no excuse.
The wind is a friend of mine. We go back
as far as the stars and the Zodiac.
I believe it was the Greeks that connected the dots
but you’ve tied the stars all up in knots!
Sure you can see Polaris, Betelgeuse and Rigel too,
but when you look at a star, they’re winking at you!
Back at the cactus we can fly and explore,
turn these spools and I’ll show you some more.
When you turn each one to the right the wind will blow.
It’s 100.3 on my radio.”
The Astronaut did just that; as he was told,
and the spaceship shook and grew very cold.
There was a gust in the trees, a fabulous breeze,
and the little man was standing on the Astronaut’s knees.
In two seconds flat both men were whisked away
to wherever however any which way.
“All systems are a go!” the tiny man said,
then he curled up on the Astronaut’s lap and went to bed.
The Handyman
Anyplace, anytime, twenty four hours a day,
the Handyman was only a phone call away.
His muscles were bigger than any gorilla’s.
His hair was the color of a small chinchilla,
but he was really quite ugly. He looked like a hog.
There wasn’t a toilet he couldn’t unclog!
Toilets were a favorite job of the Handyman.
His motto was, “If you can’t unclog it, my face surely can.”
He was also very good at making things
like walls, and floors and diamond rings.
He could build a house like the Taj Mahal.
He could build a barrel for Niagara Falls.
They say Rome wasn’t built in a day,
but it would be if the Handyman had his way.
He liked a job done right, efficiently, and quick.
A solid first step is always the trick.
But now the Handyman was busy behind bars.
He got 6 months for selling Cuban Cigars!
He acted as his own lawyer. He pled guilty to the crime
so now he’s in a State Prison serving his time.
He reads books, magazines and sleeps in the nude.
Nobody bothers him. They call him “The Dude.”
His favorite meal is Oatmeal and crackers.
His cell mate used to play for the Green Bay Packers.
He makes little sculptures from balls of gauze.
His beard makes him look like Santa Claus.
The Handyman knew he didn’t belong in jail
but he couldn’t afford any money for bail.
His body was massive, an odd looking shape.
Lifting weights was his only jailhouse escape.
He pumped iron at least three times a day.
It was the only way to enjoy his stay.
But it was time to get out. He needed a toilet with stalls,
so he planned an escape by climbing the walls.
He began by carving the cinder blocks.
He dreamed of eating a bagel with cream cheese and lox.
His cell wasn’t constructed very well.
It reminded him of the walls of a cheap hotel.
He used spoons and pencils, but mostly his hands.
The scraping was more than his fingernails could withstand.
But that didn’t stop him. Nothing ever has.
He remembered that movie about Alcatraz.
The Handyman made a dummy of his head
to lie on his pillow in the middle of his bed.
Then one day he pushed three bricks through the wall.
He snuck through the hole. He wasn’t too tall.
He climbed a pipe all the way to the ledge.
He opened the hatch and ran to the roof edge.
It was a long way down but he had to jump.
He knew he’d land with a bang and a thump.
But he had to jump. It was five stories down.
There wasn’t any water so he knew he wouldn’t drown.
Then the Handyman yelled, “Gironamo!”
and landed safely on the ground below.
His muscles and legs cushioned the fall.
He didn’t break any bones at all.
He ran through the night and climbed barbed wire fences.
He suddenly had a rebirth of his senses.
The Handyman forgot how freedom tasted!
All that time in jail was time that he wasted.
It was time to move on, he stayed with old friends
unclogging their toilets and making amends.
He threw on a roof, an addition here and there,
he worked for low wages, whatever was fair.
The Handyman kept running, the police weren’t far behind.
The Handyman was Public Enemy Number One for all the cops to find.
As a result, he couldn’t work. It kept him in town too long.
So he went undercover at the local mall leading sing-alongs.
They dressed him up as Santa and put him in a chair.
Behind him was an orchestra, complete with kettle drum and snare!
The choir was at his side; tenors and sopranos aglee,
singing songs about Rudolph, his nose and history!
This was perfect for the Handyman! In a costume getting paid.
The police would never find him. Maybe the search would fade.
But the Christmas season came to end and the Handyman was unemployed
then his face wound up as a wanted man on every single tabloid.
He shaved his beard, but it kept growing back as full as he had it before!
He tried lotions and creams from freshwater streams, he tried every remedy in the store!
The Handyman built himself a cabin from fallen trees and plants.
He survived off of nature. He ate carpenter ants
and squirrels and chipmunks and turkey and goose.
Not bad for a man who was still on the loose.
But he was still in prison, his mind and his soul.
His life was completely out of control.
He was an animal living on an animal’s terms.
He was gobbling spiders, crickets and worms.
Inside his cabin he didn’t have much.
He made some furniture; a chair and a hutch.
He slept on the floor with a pillow of pine needles.
His cabin was infested with hundreds of beetles.
So he ate `em. What else could he do?
If you were hungry, you’d eat `em too!
Then the inevitable was about to occur.
While sleeping he heard an officer.
The footsteps were in the distance, crackling the leaves.
The Handyman peeked out the window and rolled up his sleeves.
He couldn’t see anything; it was just about sunset.
Then the Handyman broke into a cold sweat.
He had never seen anything like it before.
It was eight feet tall. It could have been more.
It had hair all over, from head to toe.
It looked like it escaped from a circus side show.
“What could it be? What could it possibly be?”
It was ten feet from the cabin leaning against a tree.
The Handyman was frozen. If it wanted it could kill him.
Then it spoke. “It’s just a costume. They needed someone to fill `em.”
The Handyman’s mouth was opened wide, agape.
“You speak English? What are you, an educated ape?”
“No, no. Not at all. They call me Bigfoot, Yeti for short.
This, my friend is your day in court.
I couldn’t stand to watch you eat another spider.
Your bowel movements are going to get tighter and tighter.
Spiders are no good. What you need is a meal
of caviar and roasted veal.
But you’re not going to find that in the forest.
Let me introduce you to a friend of mine, Boris.”
The Handyman stared as the costume dropped to the ground
and a little man started flying around.
He was fiddling with a radio and seated on a spool of thread.
He wore a tiny three piece suit and a cap upon his head.
He flew over to the window and rested on the sill.
“I’m going to ask some questions; then I’ll give you my bill.
I am your lawyer. Do you want to go back to jail?”
“No,” said the Handyman. “I’d rather die then fail.”
“Very interesting. Let me write that down in my book.
Do you feel that you are a crook?”
“I only sold cigars to make an extra buck.
Now I am a criminal so I guess I’m out of luck.”
“Not yet, my friend but the police aren’t far behind you
so I’ll give you a choice of what you can do.
I think you’re a good person, though you’re a little misfit.
If you come with me there is only one benefit.
“What’s that?”
“I haven’t decided. But I have lots of jobs for you.
I need for you to build for me a Psychadelic Zoo.”
I have too many animals in my house that have no place to go.
They’re ruining all my carpets and go pee-pee on my toe.
Freedom is my offer, so I hope you would accept.
“How could I refuse to build a room for all your psychadelic pets.”
“Very well then. Get ready. I will shrink you down to size.
The police are coming but all they’ll find is my Bigfoot disguise.
And that’s what happened! The Handyman flew away on the spool deep into the night!
And when the police arrived with their flashlights
all they found was the cabin and the Bigfoot suit.
Confused and scared, they ended their pursuit.
The Artist
The Artist typically begins his day
with nothing more than a ball of clay,
some water and a potter’s wheel.
He molds the clay to his own feel.
The slightest touch of fingered flesh
makes every movement twice as fresh.
And soon a vase, a bowl, or a cup appears.
The artist leaves us souvenirs,
of which the people gladly buy,
“Job well done!” they do imply.
The Artist has traveled around the world.
His fingers are long. His nails are curled.
He uses them to carve the clay.
When he paints they sometimes get in the way.
He’s been to South Africa, China and Spain.
He walked the Champs-Elysees in the pouring rain.
He has art in museums, like the Venus de Milo;
he sculpts an arm and armadillo.
Without the Artist our walls would be bare.
His art is hanging everywhere (like plastic clothes-pinned underwear);
museums, houses, boats and barns.
He makes sculpture out of balls of yarn,
refrigerators, hub caps, old automobiles
with or without their steering wheels.
The Artist has an uncanny knack
with oils, watercolors, and shellac.
He can turn any garbage or tube of grease
into a multi-million dollar masterpiece!
And did I mention the hair on his head?
It’s a mohawk like a peacock’s. It is purple and red.
His tongue is pierced, his eyebrows, his nose.
Underneath his coveralls he wears pantyhose.
The stockings keep him warm; his shop has no heat
so the Artist wears combat boots upon both his feet.
He just finished an exhibit entitled, “Sleep.”
He wrote some words. Here’s a peep:
“Dreams are made from cranial dust,
aspirations, pleasure, lust,
and painted on a canvass mind
stretched so far ... the eyes are blind.
Then we wake to make believe
reality is what we weave
between our waking and our dreams.
Life is real, or so it seems.”
His shop is modest, small and quaint
with lumps of clay and pails of paint.
The Artist has extra coveralls
hanging from paintings along the walls.
In the center is the wheel with magic pedals.
He’s been to battle. He’s won his medals
and has them all tucked away
nearby his collection of balls of clay.
Ah yes! He’s seen many things; triumphs and falls.
You could say he’s a caveman painting his walls.
Painting is his favorite thing to do,
but he loves to design pottery, too.
The Artist loves his father and his mother.
He doesn’t have any sisters or brothers,
His self portrait is titled “absurd,”
It was a peacock digesting a mockingbird.
The Artist liked the concept. It was sure to get reviews
but when he was done, the critics said , “Why Two Cockatoos?”
“They’re not,” he said, but he dared not explain his painting to the press.
The critic, the artist knows in the end, is just as good as a guess.
But it affected the Artist. He couldn’t paint for fear of what might be said.
What if he was always misunderstood from what he meant instead?
He was being directly affected by what other people thought.
All his life this was not what the Artist had been taught.
He became sick in the head with a fever and flu. He was an Artist no more.
He wished he could paint like the Artist he knew before.
There was only one thing to do;
it was the only thing the artist knew,
he put on his coveralls and went into his shop
and sucked on his thumb like a lollipop.
He stood in front of his easel with a paintbrush in his hand.
He dipped it in some paint and was suddenly under some sort of command!
His paintbrush went wild upon the canvass. He had painted some sort of man!
He was four inches tall, eyebrows and all, and had a radio tucked in his hand.
“What have I created? I’ve never painted a man before!”
“Say no more, all of your dreams have washed upon my shore.”
The tiny man came to life and popped right of the canvass!
“What you need,” said the man, “is just a little kiss!”
The man flew up in the air and kissed the Artist on the cheek!
“Congratulations, my friend, you are the Artist of the week!”
The Artist knew he wasn’t feeling well, could this all be just a dream?
“Excuse me,” the Artist said to the little man, “but I think I need to scream!”
And so the Artist hollered as loud as he could.
“Do you feel better now? Everything is very, very good.
Let me explain something that shouldn’t take very long.
I am a creation of what is right and wrong.
It was only a matter of time before you painted me, I confess.
But never let a critic determine the path of your success.
I am the world’s biggest critic and I think you must agree
that the most beautiful painting of them all is, of course, ME!”
The tiny man threw a lump of clay upon the wheel.
“Please make me something special. A spool would be ideal.”
The Artist pressed the pedals and his nails carved away the clay.
“Perfect!” said the little man. “Now we can fly away!
This radio in my hand will make you as tall as me.
Your mini-size depends on a magic frequency.
So hold your breath, here we go! Let’s see if this thing works.
Sometimes even my radio has itsy bitsy quirks.”
The Artist stared at the man and listened to his words.
Then he started shrinking down to the size of two tiny birds!
“Let’s fly away. There are others where you need to be.
When we are ready for take-off, please grab a hold of me.”
The man dialed his radio and they both flew through the door.
“You are safe, my friend, but buckle your seat belt. Safety I like to ensure.”
The Doctor
An ankle sprain, or damaged brain,
there is a pill for every ache and pain.
But there’s one escpecially that the Doctor chewed.
It was his favorite type of food.
It was perhaps the most powerful pill.
When the Doctor swallowed, he was still.
He’d sit and stare at the windowpane
watching sunshine turn to rain,
then he listened to the thunderclouds
whisper thunder all around.
The pill was pink with a polka dot.
On each one was written, “What you’ve found is what you’ve got.”
The pill smelled as juicy as the Doctor’s pits.
The Doctor’s face was full of zits.
His hair was as stringy as an ear of corn’s.
He forgot the day when he was born.
But he could stick a needle in his arm
and sing Old McDonald had a farm!
He was capable of poking other veins
most normal folks seem less insane
like cooking with Chaucer’s silver spoon.
The Pardoner was his favorite buffoon.
He was an athlete in his high school days,
earning medals and accolades.
A box of trophies would testify
the doctor’s sprint to the finish line.
Football, Baseball or Basketball,
you name the sport, he played them all.
He was a champion unlike all the rest.
As an athlete, the doctor was the best.
He went to college and medical school.
His brain by far his favorite tool.
He cut open corpses, sewed up scars,
as a hobby he restored antique cars.
The Doctor’s first job was in a homeless shelter.
It was nicknamed the “Helter Skelter.”
People came in bloddied and bruised.
Society used and abused.
The people had no money to pay for their woe
so they gave the doctor pills instead of dough.
He didn’t mind. The service was free.
The Doctor was being paid by charity.
But he kept the pills and put them in a jar.
He kept them in his house next to his guitar.
And soon enough the jar began to overflow with pills
as the homeless people came to him with their ills.
Then late one night, he popped a pill, it could have been a jellybean,
and the doctor’s world flipped upside down: a limey pancake coated green.
More importantly, it made the doctor feel like he never felt before.
He said, “If I can feel this good right now, what if I take some more?”
Needless to say, the Doctor began an appetite
for consuming things in life most consider wrong than right.
He lost his job. He bought a dog but it, too, ran away.
All he had was a jellybean jar and his guitar to play.
That sounds very good, but he wasn’t very good. He thought he was a rock star.
He couldn’t pay bills. He lost his home. He sold his antique car.
He hit rock bottom when he went back to the homeless shelter,
not as a doctor but as a tenant of the Helter Skelter.
His diabetes was acting up. His legs were going numb.
He was losing the game of life, but the Doctor wasn’t dumb.
He checked himself into rehab. They took away his guitar.
He lost his dreams. He was going insane. They took away his black-tar.
The place was nice, filled with plants and picturesque views.
The Doctor listened to the television. He liked the evening news.
Then the next day while sleeping, there was a knock on his door.
“I hear you are a Doctor. Please do tell me more.”
The Doctor looked up. It must have been a dream.
“Don’t worry. You’re safe here. There is no need to scream.”
There was a very tiny man floating on a spool of thread.
A pair of glasses was resting on top of his head.
He held a clipboard in one hand and a pencil in the other.
“There is a power between us, why don’t we call it ‘brother.’”
“Who are you? Is this a dream?”
“Consciousness is but a stream,
and I believe you will swim to shore.
Just do like I said and please doctor, please do tell me more.”
“Get away from me! Leave me alone or else I’ll call a nurse!”
“She can’t help you, but I can. I’m the driver of your hearse.
Look under your bed. You’ll find a game. Let’s play, and if you win,
you get to come home with me. If not? You stay at this inn.”
The doctor looked under his bed and REHAB was the name of the game.
“It’s your basic board game. Pick your piece and I’ll do the same.”
The Doctor picked the pill and the little man picked the Pardoner’s spoon.
“Now roll the dice,” the little man said. “We don’t have all afternoon.”
The doctor rolled a seven and the little man laughed with joy!
The doctor landed on a space that read, “A moment to enjoy.”
“Very good, Doctor. Take your time and roll again.
The only moment to enjoy is the only moment you’re in!”
The Doctor shook the dice and rolled again. “I rolled a five.”
“Pick a Higher Power card. Remember you’re still alive.”
The doctor picked a Higher Power Card. There was a picture of the little man.
On the back it said, “If you can see me laugh as loud as you can.”
The Doctor giggled. “Who are you? And why are you in this game?”
And the little man said, “I am just a little man who will gladly take all the blame.
I made the dice. I made the cards. I know what you’re going to roll.
Pick another higher power card. It’s a turnstyle without the toll.
The doctor did as he was told. It said, “What have you learned?”
“Well?” said the little man. And the doctor said, “Definitely, more than I’ve earned.”
REHAB started flashing! And the cards quickly shuffled themselves back into the box.
The spoon and the pill both disappeared! “Quickly, put on your socks!”
“Where are we going?” the doctor asked.
“You’ve got a lecture to attend.”
“I’m not good at speaking in public.”
“You’ll do fine. They’re all of your friends.”
The Gymnast
Blessed since birth with tangerine hair,
the Gymnast was her best when she swung through the air.
This talent was actually a hand-me-down
from her mother, the Prostitute, the best swinger in town.
But the Gymnast was decent, she had charisma and charm.
She was shy and petite. She had only one arm.
Some call it a defect. That wasn’t her choice.
She bought a three-legged cat and named it ‘Rolls Royce.’
The Gymnast ordered her eggs with the sunny-side up.
She wore ripped dungarees and a splash of makeup.
Ordinary and simple. She looked great in a thong.
The Olympics was where she really belonged.
And that’s where she was, in a village far, far away
eating wasabi peas and octopus filet.
The Gymnast was favored to win the gold.
She wore a polka-dot onesee and a small blindfold!
The balance beam was the first event; a perfect 10 was her score.
She scored tens in all the rest. There was only one more.
The uneven bars was the last event, perhaps her favorite device.
Previously, in other Olympics, she had medaled in them twice.
The Gymnast was the last to go. The crowd was holding their breath.
The odds in Vegas were quite high that the Gymnast would fall to her death.
She mounted the bar, one arm and blind, and somersaulted through the air!
But unfortunately, the Gymnast forgot about all of her tangerine hair.
It wrapped around the uneven bars then it yanked right out of her head.
The Gymnast fell down hard on the floor. Las Vegas thought she was dead.
Bleeding and crying the Gymnast was rushed to the local Emergency Room.
All they had in the hospital was a bee-sting kit and a broom.
Disqualified and nullified from the all-around competition,
the Gymnast fought for her gold medal with a lawsuit and petition.
The Olympic committee would hear none of it and many years passed.
The Gymnast never cartwheeled again. That day would be her last.
Now, she never even rolls over in her sleep! Her tumbling days are done.
She works as a topless dancer where she wears her hair up in a bun.
The tips are good, the compliments better. There really is no harm.
She was the only topless dancer in the city dancing with one arm!
Nobody knew and nobody cared about the Gymnast’s past.
Her life was permanent novacaine. Her gums were receeding fast.
She was out of shape, a doughnut belly, floppy arms and thighs.
The Gymnast tinkered with ideas of silent suicide.
She didn’t want to kill herself, just a change of pace.
So she bought skim milk, lemon yogurt and an Oriental vase.
She bought a book on self-esteem, “How to get your life on track.”
She read it then returned it. She wanted her money back.
“The answer to the problem is not too hard to find.
Peel the rind of reason and suck upon your mind.”
“Excuse me?” said the Gymnast. There was a small man behind the counter.
“The author of this book is the reason for our encounter.”
The cashier in the bookstore wasn’t that tall. His mouth did barely move.
“Life is like your favorite record player once you find the groove.”
The man placed a record player upon the countertop.
“That book you bought is actually my favorite album. Put the book on top.”
The Gymnast did as she was told and the man lowered the needle.
“I’d like some privacy now. We don’t need all these people.
Close your eyes and all these people will disappear.
You and I will be alone. The book’s just a souvenir.”
The Gymnast blinked her eyes in disbelief and all the customers vanished!
The man said something to the Gymnast. It sounded like broken Spanish.
“That means, ‘Very good,’” said the man. “Life is very good.
“It’s my favorite song on the album that is never misunderstood.”
“The truth is, nobody really cares whether you know how to dance or not,
but if you like to boogie and bare your breasts, then I’m the King of Camelot.
“Welcome to my bookstore. There’s only one item on the shelf.
It’s a book about cactii. Grab anyone. Please, help yourself.
The gymnast tried to move but her feet were stuck! As if she stepped in glue.
“Oh. There’s something about this floor that I forgot to tell you.”
“It’s made from the memories of old, regretful souls.
The only way to get anywhere is by flips and forward rolls.
Tuck your head between your knees, just like you used to do.
You won’t get hurt. Not at all. That I can promise you.”
But the Gymnast wouldn’t budge. She stood there for days.
The man behind the counter was patiently amazed.
“I didn’t think you’d be so stubborn. What is wrong?” said the man.
“Nothing,” said the Gymnast. “But if I bend over I require a one dollar bill in my hand.”
The man politely obliged and the Gymnast rolled over to a shelf.
The man behind the counter was shrinking. Now, he was no taller than an elf.
The Gymnast grabbed a book using her red-painted toes.
The floor was now striped with flourescent rainbows.
“Bring it over here,” said the little man to the Gymnast.
“We’ll browse through the pictures of cactii. It’s a fantastic, little list.”
The Latin names of all the cactii, you can readily ignore.
Edgar Allen Poe would probably call my cactus `evermore.
Do you know which one it is?”
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to return my book.”
“Very well, then. Why don’t we get upside-down and we can both have a better look.”
The little man hopped up the counter, he stood on his head, the radio in his hand.
Do you mind doing what I’m doing and do a head or a handstand?”
The Gymnast flipped her legs in the air, she was balancing with her arm.
“I feel better talking to you like this but I just had a Chicken Parm.
No problem, though. I feel fine. I don’t think I’m going to get sick.
But if I do, I’ll be sure to throw up my chicken after I show you my trick.
You’re a strong woman, so I think you can handle what I’m about to do
and since you’re already upside down this should be rather easy for you.
You, Laura Lophophora, have qualified for the Cactus Olympics,
so now I must shrink you down to size.
There are no medals but every contestant can have whatever they want,
as long as it’s part of the prize.
So hold your breath, we’re both about to become just under four inches tall.”
The little man pressed a button on his radio and in a second they were both super small.
“The other contestants are waiting for us, hop on my spool and we’ll see
who the winner of the Cactus Olympics is eventually going to be.”
The Architect
Born in Kittyhawk, on the very day that man would learn to fly,
the Architect was now faced with the hapless question, Why did he have to die?
Neatly bundled on his bed beneath a sweater, socks and shoes,
his beard neatly trimmed, the Architect was napping for a snooze.
Moving men had been hired to throw away his life.
They were busy taking directions from the Architect’s wife.
Boxes and boxes of rolled up plans were brought from house to curb.
The blueprints of one man’s life…and a sign, Do Not Disturb.
His birthday was last week, undoubtedly his last, and he enjoyed the irony.
He ate a piece of chocolate cake before the piece of baloney.
Dessert before dinner was always his motto, a simple hedonistic view.
Now cancer was eating the Architect alive. What the hell could he do?
The Architect designed the town library, a hospital and a nursing home.
He designed the town High School. He designed the cereal “HONEYCOMB.”
He had barely enough energy to press the remote. That’s the last job in this life he could do.
Soap Operas, Dow Jones, M*A*S*H re-runs. Occassionally, he’d watch Jeopardy, too.
However, the Architect’s life is more permanent than most.
His buildings and sculpture, silently boast,
are made from the mind of a creative fellow
whose skin, at the moment, is an unpleasant shade of yellow.
Yet without a natural catastrophe or wrecking ball,
the Architect’s buildings will always stand tall.
No time for tennis, and too much time to complain,
the Architect has a morphine drip for the pain.
He doesn’t use it, well that’s what he says.
Although he does chew on Strawberry Pez.
His daughter stops by with daisies and mums.
He eats his toast and she picks up the crumbs.
The Architect wasn’t happy with most of his life.
He’d do most of it over, except for his wife.
He wanted to be an artist, but his mother had her way.
She always said, “Being an artist means you’ll never get paid.”
He welded a mosquitoe that sits on his front lawn.
It sucks the Earth’s blood until the Architect’s gone.
He welded an extra-large zipper. It’s on his dining room wall.
He drew the blueprints for Yosemite Falls.
The Architect is simple, functional for now.
...in progress
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