No, Really

I hide spring lambs inside my hands
My teeth are strong as slate
My abdomen is slabbed and thin
My thick, red hair looks great
My nostrils hardly ever leak
I likewise rarely drool
In short, that Perfect Man you seek?
You’ve found him.

April fool!


Close your blinking eyes and count
Those bleating sheep, and make it snappy!
If you catch the wrong amount
Of Z’s tonight, you won’t be happy.
Stomp the clutch and shift your mind
To neutral, coasting to a halt,
And do it quickly or you’ll find
You’re wakeful, which is all your fault.
Nothing’s guaranteed to blow
A well-laid plan to Kingdom Come
Than sleeping poorly prior, so
If you’re not snoring now, you’re dumb.

Jimmy V.

Laugh and think and cry each day
And when it’s time to go away
To face whatever’s coming after,
All those tears, those thoughts, that laughter
By which every day was graced
Ensure your stay was not a waste.
Far better than He lived and died
Is this: He thought, he laughed, he cried.
Jim Valvano told us so,
And he, if anyone, should know.

Shipping & Handling

Most demons are sorted in boxes
With two to a crate.
Confined, they excrete conjured toxins,
Which adds to the weight,
So never–and this is important–attempt
To shift demon-crates all by yourself if you’ve dreamt
Of a long, active life with full use of your spine.
You’ll hear lots of demonic advice, but that’s mine.

Taco Pants

Short and khaki-ish (although
Both terms are relative, I know),
My Taco Pants (cap T, cap P)
Don’t really look that good on me.
That’s not their purpose, though. I wear
My Taco Pants because I care
Much more about what I ingest
On Tuesdays than the way I’m dressed.
If cabbage, over-salsified,
Should fall, it doesn’t stain my pride
The way it would if Taco Pants
Weren’t there to let me take that chance.
Our leader, once again, is right:
We’re Taco Pants, not Fish, tonight
(Though since it’s Tuesday, in PB
Fish tacos sell for almost free).
Berets are de rigueur in France;
Pacific Beach has Taco Pants.

Blanket Apology

Sorry for the tossing, turning,
Sleepless night–my feet were burning.
Sorry that my back perspired
From the second I retired,
Soaking both the sheets with sweat;
I’m sorry that they’re not dry yet.
Sorry, dear, but I forgot
That sleeping near you makes me hot.
I’m sorry, too, for blaming you,
And sorry that the night is through,
But mostly, that you’ll soon forget
Our sultry night of moist regret.

Half-Naked Pizza

The pizza guy’s lost,
Or perhaps really famished.
The point is, he’s s’posed to be here,
But he’s vanished.
Nobody knows where my dinner is now.
(The pizza guy might,
But that’s helping me how?)
I’m hungry and cranky
And not wearing pants
After seven. Be late with the food,
Take a chance!