Friday, May 27, 2011

Weekly Worded

Pond & Tanka

Frogs in the cattails --
an amphibian chorus
of unemployed Greek

actors still commenting on 
a long-running tragedy.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Weekly Worded

   “Your rubber ducky is up-side-down in the irrigation pond.”
    “I know, it never would have survived in the wild.”
    “It’s not surviving in the pond.”
    “I’d hoped for a better transition from the bathtub environment.”
    “Well Darwin, it’s survival of the fittest, and that’s one sad rubber ducky.”
    “Actually, petroleum-based species survive longer than you think.”
    “Stuck in the petrified mud for a millennium is not survival.”
    “Rubber duckies have souls with the elasticity of Buddhist monks.”
    “Rubber duckies are manufactured, not sentient.”
    “A god by any other name can still create.”
    “But they aren’t alive!”
    “Sentient beings lack authority to testify about an object’s feelings.”
    “Are you saying I’m dumber than a rubber ducky?”
    “I’m saying you are not a rubber ducky.”
    “I’m not face down in an irrigation pond.”
    “My point exactly.”
    “So, if I jump into the pond, would we both be rubber duckies?”
    “Close, but still lacking in what a ducky feels.”
    “Really!  How would I experience that?”
    “I’d be required to throw you in.”

Friday, May 13, 2011

Weekly Worded

“Poems That Touch You”
     (title in a bookstore)

I’ve read poetry that didn’t
touch me, and the truth is --
if I had to choose -- I’d prefer
what’s less invasive.
Sadness, rage, hormonal
indiscretion -- it all amounts to
a form of lyrical masturbation
like a Shakespearean sonnet
that couples with itself
in the last two lines.
I do not want any indiscriminate
touching when I pick a book
off the shelf and stand in the aisle
reading a page or two,
clueless as to what I'll feel.
Boundaries assert themselves
in a world so random.
Once I touched a girl
who didn’t expect it,
a sweet spot she preferred
to keep to herself.
To her, I am no different
than the poem she had
to memorize in the fifth grade
and has since forgotten.
If art imitates life
then let us not be touched
when all we want
is to be moved.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Weekly Worded

Tending the Kitty

    “Retire at 75 and you’ll live comfortably on these benefits.”
    “Unless I’m dead before 75.”
    “You’ll still have everything you need.”
    “What does a dead person need?”
    "Don’t be so morbid, we’ve got a future to plan.”
    “Retirement isn’t a future.”
    “What would you call it?”
    “A last supper at the actuary tables.”
    “Why set up a retirement portfolio if this is how you feel?”
    “My cat is blackmailing me.”
    “Your cat?”
    “Yeah, Kitty is my beneficiary.”
    “Your cat’s name is Kitty?”
    “He named himself.”
    “Kitty is a he?”
    “It’s a ruse, he has a pitbull soul.”
    “I have to tell you, chances are you’ll outlive any cat.”
    “That’s what I told him.”
    “This is strange.  Who would administer your funds after you’re, let’s say, gone?”
    “So, you do think I’ll be dead.”
    “Not necessarily, but legal issues arise when a person leaves money to an animal.”
    “What sort of issues?”
    “Well, it’s costly to designate and oversee a caretaker.”
    “Then I won’t have enough money to live comfortably?”
    “Yes, you would, if you lived, but the cat would have, let’s say, challenges.”
    “What sort of challenges?”
    “For one thing, he’d have to pay for your funeral.”
    “He’ll just bury me in the litter box.”
    “That wouldn’t be wise.”
    “That’s what I told him.”
    “What was his advice?”
    “The cat?  You think Kitty talks?”
    “Well, you’re talking to him, aren’t you?”
    “Yeah, but I’m also talking to you.”