Sex Slaves from Venus

and other poems

a collection by Michael Soetaert

This is a work of fiction. That means it's all made up. Everything. If you think any of this resembles anything that's real,

there's probably a good chance that you're made up, too. Keep quiet and nobody will know the difference.

No part of this book may be reproduced by any means whatsoever,

no way, no how, without the expressed, written consent of the author,

and I can tell you right now... he ain't gonna let you.

Bad Poetry

It’s not easy writing bad poetry,

but at least I do it well,

unlike those who write the other stuff

where it’s often hard to tell.

Sex Slaves from Venus

Nigel came from the third moon of Venus,

which, like the other two moons

was also called Venus,

just to avoid confusion.

The third moon was the most invisible of the three,

but not nearly as invisible as the fourth,

only the fourth hadn’t been discovered yet,

so it couldn’t very well be counted now, could it?

“How do you know it’s even there?”

asked Leon, trying very hard

not to spill his beer.

“Same way we found the first three,”

answered Nigel.

“When we looked up in the sky

and didn’t see a thing,

then we knew they had to be there.”

“Oh,” said Leon,

convinced that even if he understood it

it would still be over his head.

And then he paid for another round of beers,

since Nigel had left all of his earth money

back in his hotel room in Akron.

Besides, Nigel never dreamed

that he’d actually have to pay for beer.

On Venus it bubbles out of the ground

at exactly thirty-three degrees,

a fine light pilsner

that never slowed you down.

Nigel had come to earth looking for men.

“On Venus,” he had explained,

“the women outnumber the men

one hundred-and-forty-eight-thousand

to one.”

“Wow,” said Leon.

“Fine women.

Foxy women.

Women with imaginations.

And they don’t mind sharing.”

“Cool,” Leon replied.

“And you never have to work,

because the women take care of you.

All you have to do

is sit around and drink beer, watch TV, and have sex.

All day long.

Forever.”

“Cool.”

Larry couldn’t believe

that his best friend Leon

had give over three hundred dollars

to some stranger he met in a bar.

“He had to buy a bus ticket back to Akron,”

Leon had tried to explain,

“’cause that’s where his transmitter is.

He has it in Akron

‘cause nobody there will notice

when he calls the mothership

to come get him.

And get me, too.”

“But you’re not in Akron,”

Larry felt obliged to say.

“No shit!”

Leon felt obliged to reply.

“You see, I’m supposed to be standing

on top of the house

tonight at nine,

with my toothbrush,

my swimsuit,

and a towel.

Nigel’s going to swing by and pick me up

before heading out of town.”

Larry only had one thing to say:

“You’re an idiot.”

“You can come, too.

Nigel said it would be OK.”

Since Leon obviously hadn’t understood Larry

the first time,

Larry said it again:

“You’re an idiot.”

But just the same,

when the evening rolled around

Larry was up on the roof waiting.

And nine o’clock came.

And nine o’clock went.

And there was no Nigel,

nor any mothership from Venus.

But still Leon waited.

And at a quarter ‘till ten

Larry climbed up the ladder

to coax his friend down.

They’re not comin’, man.

Comon down.

We’ll call up a few babes,

get us a twelve pack,

and catch the late show.”

“No, man, he’ll be here.”

He probably got tied up in traffic

or something like that.”

Larry knew it was pointless to explain

that if you’re on earth

in a flying saucer,

traffic is not much of a concern.

He just climbed down,

went inside,

and made The Call.

And when the men arrived,

Larry wasn’t surprised to find out

that they really did wear white coats,

and they really did have a straight jacket

and big hypodermics

filled with all sorts of interesting stuff.

And that they’d even brought a net.

It was then, though,

that the mothership really did come.

It really had been tied up in traffic.

And Nigel really was onboard,

and they really were going back

to the third moon of Venus,

which really was invisible,

and it really was over-populated with women

and under-populated with men.

And the beer and the work

and everything

was really true.

And, of course,

Leon went with them.

And Larry did, too.

And the guys from the hospital

could’ve gone as well,

but they stayed behind,

because you’d have to be crazy

to believe in such things.

Two Religious Men

Two religious men

both claiming to know God,

differed as to the thises and thats

and the various finer points

as to what really was

the will of God.

And for hours they would argue,

both claiming to know.

So one cloudy day

they decided to settle it all,

and both met in a field to pray,

one for snow,

and the other for rain,

for certainly it would do one or the other,

and whichever

would prove who was right.

One shouted until

he was red in the face.

While the other jumped up

and down in place.

And both were thoroughly surprised

when the sun broke through,

and the clouds gave way

to the blue sky.

And it became a beautiful day,

which pleased the heathens,

who moved their orgy outdoors.

Christmas Cards

I send Christmas cards to total strangers.

I don’t know why.

It’s just something that I do.

It’s really not that expensive,

maybe a buck.

Especially if you use the cheap cards.

I just open up the phonebook

and randomly pick someone,

and then I start sending them cards.

Every year.

There are pictures of the pets

and one of those form letters

where you tell about how well your kids are doing in school,

even though they’re not.

It’s not like I’m being weird or anything.

There’s a return address.

I sign my name.

I guess what I’m really hoping for

is that somebody will think they actually know me,

so they’ll start sending cards back.

Maybe, after a while,

we could send birthday cards,

and maybe even a Valentine.

Mrs. Einstein

Albert Einstein reads his books

while Mrs. Einstein sews and cooks.

He sits and thinks deep, deep, thoughts

while Mrs. E. darns his socks.

And while Mrs. Einstein scrubs the bath,

Al sits downstairs working math.

She takes out the garbage and washes the floor,

cuts out coupons and goes to the store.

She mows the lawn and does the wash;

she fixes the roof out over the porch.

She scrubs the toilet and unclogs the sink,

and all the while Al sits and thinks.

And when Al finally comes to bed

with abstract concepts still filling his head,

he’s ready to tell the Mrs. his thoughts so deep,

but Mrs. Einstein is sound asleep.

Maggie

Maggie was a cat.

She was a good cat.

She did what cats are supposed to do well.

She slept, she ate, and she laid around,

and she caught mice.

Maggie was good at catching mice.

She ate them, too,

which her people found rather disgusting,

but they were willing to ignore it,

because they really didn’t like the mice.

Maggie’s life was good.

But it wasn’t enough.

So Maggie decided to go to college

and major in philosophy.

Well, sure, most people in her undergrad classes

noticed that she was a cat,

but the further she went

the less anybody seemed to care,

until she got in grad school,

and then nobody noticed at all.

The trouble began

before Maggie finished her Ph.D.

She started to question things,

like: Was the unquestioned Mouse

really not worth eating?

Was any mouse worth eating?

Was there really any mice at all,

or were they a collective illusion?

Perhaps Maggie herself

was an illusion of a mouse.

And the more Maggie thought,

the more she came to realize

that she could never stop.

The logic followed QED:

If you meow,

and therefore you are,

then if you don’t meow,

then, therefore, you’re not.

But perhaps she wasn’t anyway,

for after all,

how could you ever know anything for sure?

And Maggie became totally useless as a cat.

Of course,

it took the mice a whole three minutes

to realize that not only was Maggie

not going to chase them anymore,

but Maggie wasn’t even going to move,

even when they discovered

that the quickest way to the kitchen

was going over Maggie.

And in marginally less time

than it took the mice to realize

that Maggie was less than useless,

the mice had overrun the entire house.

It was about that time

that Maggie got the boot.

She was replaced by a tomcat

who was so stupid,

that he thought his tail

belonged to somebody else.

He had the mice whipped into shape by nightfall.

Maggie might’ve starved

had she not made her way to the University,

where she came to stay,

spending the rest of her days in the Philosophy Department.

Well, yeah, she was just as useless there,

but nobody there noticed the difference.

An Ode to Deep Poetry

Have you ever while reading a poem

thought, “Golly, this sure is dumb!”

And to the guy next to you quietly shout,

“Geepers, what the heck is this about?”

For several hours you try to find

the hidden meaning deep in your mind.

Not wanting to feel really dumb,

to explain you finally ask someone.

After reading it says the creep,

“Gosh, the meaning sure is deep!”

So you ask him to please let you in,

and he says, “It’s... but then again...”

After trying to explain for a minute or three,

it’s about then you begin to see,

both the explainee and the guy who wrote the poem

ought to be put in some sort of home.

So the heck I say to these deep rhymes,

on them I’m not even going to waste my time.

You can throw ‘em out with the rinse;

I’m going to read something that makes sense!

Lightbulbs

Pretty amazing, huh? I took out these walls here so the whole house would have that gallery feel. It'll look a lot better once I get the walls patched. I got all the shelves from IKEA. The foam on all the shelves – you can get that in bulk online.

It's the world's largest collection of burnt out lightbulbs. Technically, a lightbulb is called a "lamp," but most people don't know that, so if you call a lightbulb a lamp, it's just confusing.

Over here... these are some of my favourites. This one. This one was my first. It was from my nightlight when I was a kid. This is the left turn signal bulb in the first car I ever owned. A 1964 Chevy Impala. This one was from the streetlight in front of my childhood home. I'm not saying how I got it.

This is the automotive wing. These are all car headlights. Ford here. That's Chevy. Chrysler. Dodge. Foreign. Exotics. Check this one out. It's from a 1992 Ferrari F40. I paid $38 for that, including shipping. It would've cost considerably more had it not been burnt out.

These are all my fluorescent bulbs, by width and length. A lot of folks would argue that fluorescent lights really don't use bulbs. And they have a point. I mean, I don't include neon, and I know it's pretty much the same. I dunno. I just had a lot of them, so I thought, "Why not?" The way I figure it, it's my museum. I can curate it like I want.

These are all novelty lightbulbs. See? When you turn this one on, it's a smiley face. And the light's yellow. Pretty cool. This one, it's a blacklight bulb. Most blacklights that aren't fluorescent, really aren't blacklights. They've just been filtered to look that way. But this really is a blacklight. It's a lightbulb-shaped fluorescent light with a little charger right in the base. That is cool. It still works, too.

A lot of folks think I'm... you know... a bit off for collecting burnt out lightbulbs. But check this out. I bet you've never seen a bulb like this. 1924. It's an antique. See how much more fragile that is? They made lightbulbs before 1924... but who kept them when they burnt out? I'll tell you: Nobody. Old ones turn up now and again, in old buildings and what not. But for the most part, they're all gone.

Technology is moving away from lightbulbs. Soon, it'll be all LED, and who knows what after that. The classic lightbulb. The lightbulb you remember from when you were a kid. Soon they'll be gone forever. And that's because nobody saves burnt out lightbulbs. Except for me.

Practical Predictions

Madame Sosostris,

tell me something new.

I know that I

someday must die,

and there’s nothing I can do.

I could care less

about life’s trials and tests,

my neighbors and their fates.

And I don’t care to know

who will come to blows

when they’re dividing up my estate.

Madame Sosostris,

tell me what I haven’t heard,

like who will place

in today’s race

at Oak Lawn in the third.

The Ballad of King Bob and His Horse Bill

This is the story of Wise King Bob

and his stead and companion Bill.

They rode not to pillage and rob.

Rode not to murder and kill.

They rode through country and county.

They rode o’er hill and dale

in search of the sacred bounty,

in search of the Holy Grail.

They traveled through wind, snow, and rain,

through mud and sleet and hail,

through locusts and plagues, untold of pain,

Chevrolet lug nuts and two-penny nails.

Through blackened night and driving sands,

blizzards and buzzards and hoary frost,

through Krsnas and Vishnus and bad rock bands,

and cold spaghetti without any sauce.

For seventeen years they traveled this way,

until finally Bill had had enough.

He sat down on the road to stay,

and said, “Boss, it’s time to get off.”

Said Bill, “My hooves are tired. My back is sore.

I’m ready to go back home.

If you want to carry on some more,

you’ll have to carry on alone.”

Good King Bob would not falter.

He continued on his quest.

So Bill laid down his halter

and returned to his home in the west.

When Bill arrived at the castle,

how the subjects did dance and sing.

Being without a king was a hassle,

so they made a horse their king.

But King Bob traveled on many a year more,

‘till one day at a church rummage sale,

in a discount pile on the floor

Good King Bob found the Holy Grail.

So Good King Bob finished his trip.

He returned a victor from his quest.

But no one in the castle gave a rip.

Good King Bill had converted them all to atheists.

I Take Pictures of My Shoes

I go places like city parks,

ballgames,

art shows...

just about anywhere,

and I take pictures of my shoes.

I usually sit,

but sometimes I stand,

because it's easier.

You see,

here you can tell I'm at the ballgame,

because of all the peanut shells.

And here,

I'm at the beach.

See the sand?

I've framed a few of my favourites.

On the bus to the top of Pike's Peak.

And here I am,

at the top,

standing next to those nice people from Japan.

Those are some of my favourites.

It's all digital now.

I can watch them on my flat screen,

all in a big loop,

one picture of my shoes,

followed by another picture of my shoes,

each following another,

forever.

Unicycle Bob

Unicycle Bob was the most amazing circus act

that I have ever seen.

Unicycle Bob couldn’t ride the unicycle for squat.

I mean, he could hold his balance most of the time,

but he was always running into things.

Come to find out,

Unicycle Bob was just this guy from my hometown

who didn’t even travel with the circus.

I think he was an investment banker or something as equally exciting.

He just wanted to be in the circus,

if only once.

So he talked the circus owner into letting him ride his unicycle

on a tight rope

over the lion cages

with no net.

What did the owner have to lose?

I must’ve been all of eleven,

sitting there in the stands.

And here comes Unicycle Bob,

wearing a bright yellow shirt

and a yellow derby hat.

Where do you get yellow derby hats?

So Bob climbs up on the pole with his red unicycle.

He must’ve been fifty feet off the ground,

and below him all these lions are starting to take notice.

Well, Bob bows to the crowd after the big introduction,

and everyone goes quiet,

except for the lions;

they were really getting into the show.

And then the drum roll starts

and right on cue Bob takes off.

He actually made it about two feet

before he fell head first into the lion cage.

It really didn’t matter if the fall would’ve done Bob in.

That was pretty much the circus for that Saturday afternoon.

I can’t help but think Bob would’ve been better off

if he’d learned to juggle torches,

or maybe if he’d learned to ride the unicycle better,

but I guess we’ll never know.

Love is Like a Brick

Love is like a brick.

Sometimes it’s heavy and thick.

And other times it’s cold as stone.

It leaves you all alone.

Ahh… Sisyphus

At least Sisyphus

gets more exercise than I do,

pushing the obnoxious rock up the hill,

and he gets regularly scheduled breaks,

what on the trip back down.

There are no surprises,

no demands that he work overtime.

He never has to fill in for a sick co-worker;

no one expects him to push two stones

until McMurty gets back from out of town.

He never has to fake enthusiasm for his boss,

smile at the office party,

or buy presents for the secretaries at Christmas.

And I bet nobody expects him to donate a share of his salary

every year to some pathetic charity,

just so the office can have 100% participation,

and prove that he’s a part of the team.

Quality Management.

World Class Customer Service.

A regular stand-up kinda guy.

He never has to worry that it will get worse.

And he never has to wonder if what he does

will really, truly ever make any difference anywhere in anything.

Of course, he is in hell.

So I guess there is a downside.

Bad Fortunes

I’m a Chinese food junkie.

Carry out.

3 to 4 times a week.

Egg rolls, moo goo guy pan,

cashew chicken (Springfield style, of course),

and fortune cookies.

Especially fortune cookies.

So here’s the deal.

I started noticing

that something just wasn’t right with the fortunes.

You know, the ones you read and then say,

“What kind of fortune was that?”

Fortunes like,

“I’m trapped in this dead end job!”

“Send help!”

“Is this the best I can do with a college education?”

and “I expected more out of life than this.”

You get the idea.

And the more of these I read,

the more I realized

that they were either a pathetic cry for help

or a unique way to get published.

But either way,

it doesn’t really matter.

Because just as suddenly as they began

they ended.

You know,

they became stupid stuff like

“Beware of paper dogs running backwards”

and “Fear the man who claims to know.”

I imagine the guy got canned.

I mean, you could pretty much see that coming.

But the bad thing is,

now I’ll never know

just how his story might end.

Jonathan Miller

Jonathan Miller,

the professional killer,

made his way through the semi-pros,

losing his amateur status

by not killing for gratis,

filling people with little holes.

As a rookie slayer,

a most valuable player,

the salary he wanted he could insist.

But his career tragically ended

when to the farm club he was sended

on the 20 to 25 year disabled list.

Words that are Arranged Like Poetry Across the Page

Her gentle touch

was like the feel of a warm hand

being placed softly on my skin,

while we stood there on the shore.

Beneath our feet,

the sand was like the exoskeletons

of countless organisms

crushed by the relentless movement of the waves,

as the tide rose

like it was being pulled by the moon.

While in the sky,

the stars shone

like burning balls of gas

millions of miles away,

as night fell

like a shadow crossing the globe.

I knew the rain would fall again,

like droplets of moisture

too heavy

for the clouds to bear their weight.

And yet I knew as well,

like two thoughts simultaneously occurring in my mind,

that her lies were like the absence of truth.

So I turned to go

down the road stretched out before me

like a strip of back asphalt,

as the wind moved through the trees

as if it had been warmed by the sun

and set in motion by the rotation of the earth.

Charley the Choo Choo

Charley was a big, red choo choo.

Everyday he’d go from Hiville to Loville

and then back again.

Charley would take grains and cereals from Hiville,

and he’d get all sorts of good things to eat from Loville.

Charley was so busy going to and from Hiville and Loville

that he never even slowed down at all the little towns he passed through,

or even tooted twice to all the little girls and boys

who would come out and wave every time he passed by.

Charley chugged on, day after day,

and probably would’ve chugged on forever

had it not been for what happened one sunny day

while Charley was at the roundabout in Loville

getting ready to make the trip back to Hiville.

While they were loading Charley with all those wonderful things to eat

a little bird flew down and sat on the wire

that ran right beside the tracks.

And the little bird asked,

“Doesn’t that just bore you to tears?”

And Charley replied, “I don’t understand.”

“I mean,” said the little bird, “you just do the same thing,

day in and day out,

going back and forth and back and forth.

You never get to see a distant grove of trees

or find out where the river begins.

You never get to see the sun rise over a far away mountain

or feel a tropical breeze on your face.

You never even get to haul anything different.

That would bore me to insanity.”

And then the little bird flew away before Charley could ask it anything more.

But still, Charley thought about what the little bird had said,

which was something Charley had never thought about before.

And the more he thought, the more he realized

that maybe that little bird was right.

And Charley came to realized just how unhappy he really was.

And he got to thinking that maybe he’d never been happy all along.

So Charley the big red choo choo

made up his mind right then and there

that he was going to see the rest of the world.

The first place Charley went was into the town of Loville.

He went right down the middle of the street

looking into all of the shops and theaters and dance halls,

and at all the strange people who hung out on the street corners

wearing big hats and flashing gold-capped teeth.

But before Charley got very far at all,

a policeman stopped him and said,

“You can’t drive down our streets.

Streets are made for bicycles and cars, not locomotives.

Your sharp steel wheels will leave ruts in our roads

and make it too lumpy for people to drive on.”

So Charley had to leave.

The next place Charley came to was the country,

where he went past a farm.

There he saw horses and cows playing in a field,

and chickens and ducks playing in the barnyard,

and dogs and sheep playing in the meadow.

And Charley wanted to play, too,

only the farmer came out and said,

“You can’t be here.

Farms are made for animals.

Your chugging scares the chicks and ducklings,

and your smoke makes the grass turn brown.”

So Charley had to leave.

The next place Charley went was the forest,

where he saw the deer hiding in the thickets,

and the birds flying through the branches,

and the bears playing in the grassy glades

while honeybees flew busily about

and fish flipped playfully in the little stream that tumbled over the rocks

as it wound its way through the woods.

And Charley thought it would be a wonderful place to stay,

only Charley couldn’t stay there, either,

because a forest ranger came up and said,

“Forests are no place for locomotives.

Your big wheels crush the wild flowers

and your noisy whistle scares the bunnies and woodchucks.”

So Charley had to leave.

In fact, everywhere that Charley went,

whether it was the mountains or the prairie,

the beach or the desert,

it was the same thing –

Charley had to leave.

Finally Charley ended up right where he had begun,

at the roundabout in Loville.

But there he found that they no longer wanted him.

Charley had been replaced by a sleek, new diesel,

which the builder had been careful not to give a personality to,

so that it never got bored.

Since Charley had no place else to go,

he chugged over to the old trainyard

where they put all the broken trains,

and there Charley chugged his last chug.

And it was there that the same little bird

came and found the rusted hulk of what had once been Charley.

And since Charley’s old smoke stack was such a perfect place,

she built her nest there.

And that is where she returned year after year to build her nests.

And when she grew old and died,

her children continued to come back and build their nests there, too,

and so did their children after them.

And I suppose they still do.

Time and Temperature

It came as an epiphany.

The bank’s time and temperature wasn’t wrong.

It was actually telling what the temperature was going to be

tomorrow at 6:17 p.m.

It was a window into the future.

Perfectly useless for most aspects of life,

except maybe planning a picnic,

but nevertheless,

a chance to see what had not yet happened,

what was going to happen

28 hours and 16 minutes from now,

any now.

So instead of going to work one day,

I just sat in the bank’s lot

and watched as it cooled off tomorrow evening,

down to an overnight low of 63,

before it started to warm up again at sunrise,

day after tomorrow.

It was only after I’d been there for over a day

that I noticed the parking lot was full of other cars

with their occupants doing nothing else

than watching that digital readout.

One guy here,

two guys there,

even entire families

sitting in rapture

over what tomorrow’s weather was going to be.

I think it was finally hunger

that made me abandon my spot,

which was quickly filled by one of the cars

circling the lot,

hoping for someplace to land.

At times I’m tempted to go back,

just to see,

just to know.

But that intersection has become so congested

that it would add a full thirty minutes onto my commute,

and I don’t want to leave any earlier,

and I can’t afford to be late.

Finding Paradise

Three good friends died and went to heaven,

and when they stepped through the gates,

the youngest of the three, in awe and amazement, said,

“Damn!”

And just like that he was gone.

Upon seeing his young friend vanish,

the middle of the three exclaimed,

“Shit!”

And he, too, was gone.

Finding himself all alone,

the oldest and the wisest of the three proclaimed,

“The hell with this!”

And that is how the three

came to be together again.

And it may have been heaven,

or it may have been hell,

but none of the three cared.

Pictures

I’ve taken pictures

of everything I own.

It’s so easy.

I use my telephone.

I’ve taken pictures

of everything I’ve ate,

and I make a note,

if it were good or great.

I’ve taken pictures

of everywhere I’ve been,

careful to catalogue

with whom and when.

I’ve taken pictures

of everyone I’ve ever met.

I have a list,

so I won’t forget.

But every once in a while... I wonder

just what I’ve been taking these pictures for,

and how much differently life might’ve been

had I taken less pictures

and lived just a little bit more.

Modesty

I wanna write

the kinda poem that everybody is supposed to like

and it will be studied

and dissected

and diagrammed

until every nuance

has been debated

so many times

in classrooms

and journals

and Internet chatrooms

and even sermons

that no one no longer

gives a damn

And everybody

I mean everybody

can no longer remember

why anybody ever thought it was ever any good

much less worthy of literary merit

Yeah

I’d be content with that

Cap’in, Cap’in

(goin’ down fast)

Cap’in, Cap’in, goin’ down fast,

throw me a line so I can last.

Was there once, goin’ there again

(if a line don’t rhyme it ain’t no sin).

Came in first so I wouldn’t be last,

got out back so I wouldn’t be past.

Your remember ol’ Earl I say to a friend.

(But how could you forget him then again?)

(this line’s here just for space)

“Don’t fall in love, it’ll stick to your face.”

That’s what Earl’d always say.

(Who the heck is Earl anyway?)

Knew a man who made gold bricks.

(That’s fine, but can he do balloon tricks?)

Got a quarter pie to make seven pence.

(That last line just don’t make sense.)

You might think my grammar is bad,

shows ya the quality of schoolin’ I’ve had.

Electric toaster ate the cat,

looped single and a busted bat.

Airplane crashed into left field,

turned right and forgot to yield.

Poetry’s fun when it rhymes

(throw up if you’re havin’ a helluva time).

I ain’t too fat ‘cause I’m thin

(stop complainin’ or I’ll start over again).

Knew a man who got hit by a subway train,

serves him right for standin’ in the rain!

This poem’s just a little bit weird

(hold on and we’ll stop at the pier).

Cap’in, Cap’in, goin’ down fast,

throw me a line so I can last.

You may think this is a bunch of bloody rot;

read it again so you can get the hidden thought.

Your might read it twice again for fun;

if you’re looking for the meaning, well, there is none.

Hang on to your hats for the weekly show.

(Do you think it ain’t a poem if it don’t rhyme?)

I’d better be careful of what I say,

this ain’t much of anything, anyway.

While you read this I hope you had a ball;

getting’ tired of writin’, so this’ll be all.

I’ve Got Those Saturday Night Blues

(and the Stereo Just Ate the Cat)

I’m beginning to get a little up tight

because it’s another Saturday night,

and I’m alone as usual once again.

I haven’t seen my girl in I don’t know when.

I’m getting as lonely as a bat,

and the stereo just ate the cat.

I called her up on the telephone,

and she said tonight I’ll be alone.

I just don’t know what to do.

I’ve got those Saturday night blues,

if you can imagine that.

And the stereo just ate the cat.

All I can do is sit here and pine

as this heart breaks of mine.

I just can’t love no one but her

as I sit here and look at the fur.

And I think it’s a terrible pitty,

that the stereo just ate my kitty.

Form Poem

The writer regrets

that you will not want

the enclosed contribution.

It is, however,

being written anyway

so that it can be returned,

with thanks for a roundtrip through the mail.

The writer regrets

not being able to write

an actual poem,

but extensive submissions

forces him to conserve time

for the business of reading rejections.

When it seems called for,

he will jot a poem below.

Falling Backward

Why couldn’t you have been gone

in the spring?

Then I could’ve turned the clock ahead

And that would’ve been one hour less

that I would have to live

without you.

A First Class Funeral

We gave Uncle Adolf one helluva send-off.

The ladies that had known him

before he was ninety

just had a wonderful time crying,

and we all got to take our turns

walking by and wondering

how in just three days

Uncle Adolf could be made to look

like somebody no one knew.

Father Bauer did it up, too.

All in starched white,

not the ordinary Sunday stuff,

swinging a fresh supply of incense

and saying the very best of prayers.

He had practiced.

Even the Altar Boys were top rate.

You could tell it wasn’t the first

really first class funeral they’d ever done.

It’s those little things,

like not dropping the Holy Water

just short of the Father’s reach,

while everyone looks on in terror,

and then having to go running back for more

that they’ll probably get out of the drinking fountain

because they’re too scared

to touch the real stuff

without having been properly blessed themselves.

And they didn’t even sit on their heels

when the Father dragged on,

saying wonderful things about Uncle Adolf,

who wasn’t even there,

because we had all decided

that the funeral home and goofed

and sent over the wrong one,

but no one was brave enough to admit it,

at least not out loud, that is.

Even the pallbearers were a class act.

No one let on for a moment

that the casket was really heavy,

undoubtedly the delux model.

Made to last.

And not a one stumbled

while carrying that casket to the car,

where they slid it in without a hitch.

No broken feet.

No hernias.

No broken lid that refused to stay shut.

And I had this really wild idea,

that at the very same time across town

there was this other funeral

where Uncle Adolf really was,

and no one there would admit

that the funeral home goofed, either.

But somewhere on the way

both lines of cars would get all mixed up,

and we’d get the right coffin

under the right headstone after all.

But it never happened.

At least, not in real life.

Someone had called a cop

who knew the right way

to the right graveyard

and never once acted the least bit concerned

about getting lost.

The Zealot

There once was a man

who devoted his entire life

to writing the Bible backwards

– both Old and New.

And he went to his grave

Satisfied

that it all was a bunch of gibberish.

Yippee Yi Yea!

There comes a time,

that moment of realization

when you’re standing there in front of the bathroom mirror

with the shaving cream hiding those first few lines,

and your hair still wet from the shower

so you can’t really tell just how gray you really are.

And you look in your eyes.

I mean really, truly look,

and you see yourself for what you really are:

Someone whose life is about to pass them by.

Someone whose dreams have been slowly slipping away.

But that slipping has turned to sliding,

and that sliding has built up steam and become a runaway freight train,

and if you don’t grab onto it now – Right now! –

if you don’t reach out and grab that ladder

and hold on like all hell has busted loose

while it pulls you off your feet,

and your arms feel like they’re going to be ripped off –

if you don’t reach out,

you’re going to be left behind,

standing there on the tracks shuffling your feet with your head down

and your hands in your pockets,

because you know that train ain’t ever coming back this way again.

At least, not close enough to grab onto.

If you’ve never had that feeling

or never think there may come a day when you might,

then you might as well stop here,

because there ain’t no way you’re going to understand

the sheer terror that Art Cligglio felt

when he thought about lying awake in bed

and hearing that far away whistle

and imagining that those big old steel wheels

were bouncing down the rails saying:

“Clickity Clack. Clickity Clack.

Train’s done gone.

It ain’t comin’ back.”

That’s why Art Cligglio wiped the shaving cream from his face

before the steel ever had a chance to pull against his whiskers,

walked into the kitchen, and announced to his wife over the splattering bacon

that he’d done taught his last day of Social Studies at Crossgrove High School

and by God, he was going to do it!

He was going to become a Singing Cowboy!

There was a little bit of an interim.

Well, that bit of time it took Cora to stop laughing

after she realized that Art wasn’t kidding.

And then there was the pleading and the begging

and the pathetic sniveling.

And when Art finally left the house at a quarter ‘til eight

Cora was really convinced that he was going to work.

Of course, she knew better when Art came home that evening

covered with more sequins than Elvis,

and he was trying to figure out just how to hold a lariat.

Cora was a resourceful person, though.

She called up Mr. Herschfeld, the principal at Crossgrove,

and convinced him her husband wasn’t at all too well,

which wasn’t far from the truth,

at least as far as Cora was concerned.

Cora was patient, too,

even though Art refused to see Dr. Waxman,

especially after all the trouble she went through

to get him in on such short notice and all.

Cora was patient, patient and calm.

She stayed calm when Art stood on the coffee table

and knocked over the lamps with his lasso.

She stayed calm when all the neighbors complained

because Art was yodeling out in the backyard at one a.m.

She even stayed calm when Art ruined the brand new upholstery with his spurs.

The horse, however, was too much,

especially since Bullet wasn’t housebroken.

So Cora packed her suitcase, took the cat, and left.

Art thought he made one helluva deal.

He traded the entire house – lock, stock, and barrel –

for a fairly decent pickup and an almost new trailer,

cashed in the CDs,

and headed for LA,

singing the whole way:

“Yippee yi yo!

Yippee yi yea!

Ki yi Yippee yi!

It’s a wonderful day!”

Of course, Cora was more than willing to drop the divorce,

even to forget she’d brought the whole deal up to begin with,

when Art really did become a Singing Cowboy.

Five million up front, fifteen percent royalties,

and a healthy hunk of the video profits,

not to mention a movie and a certain sequel.

Sweet. Sweet. Sweet.

Heck, even the neighbors seemed to forget

that they’d ever been kept awake,

and the guy that got Art’s old house

ended up feeling that somehow he’d gotten the worse deal,

although he really wasn’t certain why he should feel that way.

And Art?

Art forgave the neighbors.

Art took his wife back,

even the cat.

Art didn’t care.

Why should he?

Hell, he got to be a Singing Cowboy!

On the Shoreline

Oh! Say not the oarsman

when the journey is done,

that getting there

was only half the fun.

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