Dealing with unpleasant things
Yourself is what adulthood brings.
The tax upon adulthood’s cost:
Your right to duck what sucks is lost.
That’s not to say we don’t still try.
I shouldn’t speak for you, but I
Still often need a talking-to
Before my won’ts I’m wont to do.
A case in point: This very verse
Is incomplete, perversely terse
And quite a likely candidate
For filing under Let It Wait.
I’ve lost momentum, quite forgot
My thesis…will I quit? I’ll not!
The grown-up part behind my eyes
(Which often wears a bear disguise
For reasons that I can’t pretend
To fathom) might for months on end
Lie dormant (hibernating, maybe?)
While I whimper like a baby
At the prospect of completing
Tasks from which I’m glad retreating.
One day, though, the pseudo-bear
Arises from beside my hair
(Not under it, because I’m balding)
Slaps me with an ursine scaulding
Portmanteau of maul and scold
Reminds me that I’m [cough] years old
And shames me ’til my weak defiance
Crumbles into meek compliance.
Faced with (a) a grizzly bite,
Or (b) a verse, I’d rather write.
The day may come when writing’s worse
(Or I’m a mite less bite-averse)
And immaturity wins out;
Until then, though, I’ll write. (And pout.)


You never won your town the race
Those ships were launched despite your face
Your legend on no Grecian urn
We’ll Ozymandiacally retrace

You never heroes’ suits did spurn
Your birth date students needn’t learn
Yours aren’t the words that we’ll recall
When heaven’s lanterns cease to burn

Society’s decline and fall
Is not a consequence at all
Of your departure from this sphere
Your name adorns no bathroom wall

Your insignificance is clear
A waste of sodium’s the tear
That’s swallowed by the empty space
I wallow in now you’re not here

That’s Why It’s Called A “Rumpus”

This is not the place, I know,
To let my self-obsession show.
A poet should be Everyman
(Or Everywoman, if he can)
In order to illuminate
The ways in which we all relate.
One failing, though, I haven’t solved:
I’m staggeringly self-involved.
My self-absorption’s so complete
I radiate no body heat
And if an object in my orbit
Isn’t watchful, I’ll absorb it.
Difficult though it may be
To turn attention back to me
In any given situation,
That I’ll do with exultation!
Let the wild rumpus start!
(That’s what happens when I fart.)