Empty Chair

I argue with an empty chair
And people say I’m not all there
Clint Eastwood does it on TV
And…whoa. Okay, I guess I see.


Clogged Tubes

The internet is slow tonight
Which makes it hard for me to write
In such a way my words are read
Beyond the table by my bed,
Not that that’s important, since,
Like me, most folks are on the fence
(At best) concerning whether they
Can download what I wrote today,
But even so, I find it galling
That the time I’ve wasted stalling,
Conjuring elaborate
Excuses for not writing yet,
Might well have been spent eat– er, loving,
Knowing I could write while shoving
Bytes up through the Stevens Tubes
To where the internet is. Rubes
Who aren’t as technically inclined
As I don’t get it; they don’t mind
The wait, ’cause “that’s just how it is,”
But me? I’m in the cyber biz
So when the system fails for me
I feel betrayed. I ought to be
The one the wi-fi caters to!
I’m not a noob (“newbie,” to you)
Who has to sit and take it when
The web goes– Hey, don’t plug that in!
You’ll break it! Let the expert– Oh,
It’s working now?
You may go.


Not the case.
You’re way off base.
It isn’t true,
I’m telling you.
Don’t pretend
That summer’s end
Approaches. Don’t.
It can’t. It won’t.
Go back to school?
Like fun! The rule
Is, Summer stays
‘Til Labor Day’s
Been celebrated.
So, we wait. Did
Something change
To rearrange
The schedule? No?
Then, you may go,
But summer stays!
(For six more days.)

Dead Tired

Oversleeping’s not a crime.
In fact, I must admit that I’m
An advocate of sleeping late:
If dreams are streaming, work can wait.
Ostensibly, the reason for
My sloth is sleep: I need some more.
I wonder, though, if it’s because
I crave that lateful wakeful buzz,
The jolt that races through my veins
To galvanize my limbs and brains
The way that Dr. Frankenstein
Would do when he’d had too much wine
And got the urge to play a prank
On Igor. (Yes, the Doctor drank!
Why else would it occur to him
To build a bro from bits of Jim,
The late Great Nate, Expired Jay,
And other dudes who’d passed away?
That’s not what we call “sober” thinking.
That’s what comes of too much drinking
When you ought to be in bed:
“Let’s reeninanimate Dead Fred!
We’ll use my uncle’s castle lair–
My cousin stashed a bottle there!”)

…I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten what
My point was when I started, but
It probably was much less frightening
Than creating life with lightning
Wired to cadavers’ necks…
Maybe it’s to do with sex?
I don’t know why my mind would go
From sex to making monsters, though.
I must be tired. If you please,
I think I’ll snag some extra Z’s.