I mostly read things front-to-back.
That’s my angle of attack:
Begin at the beginning, then
Plow through the middle to the end.
It works for novels, verse, and drama
(Sorry for the Oxford comma
If you’re one whom it offends);
For true-life tales it often lends
Essential context: Predicate
Cannot confirm what’s not said yet.
That habit, though, gets clumsy when you
Practice it on, say, a menu
Or encyclopedia —
Why waste time with Ad-Ba
When what you’re looking up is Cow?
That’s Vol. IV, just go there now!
And while you’re ruminating on
The ruminants who chew your lawn
And transform grass to low-fat dairy,
I’ll be stuck inside an aerie
On a cliff or mountaintop,
Munching mice from mama’s crop
And cursing Evelyn (Ms. Wood)
For leading me to think I could
Read fast enough — with proper training —
I need never risk explaining
That I must have skipped that part,
Read beans and then cut straight to fart
While skipping both in– and digestion.
Worth it? That’s an open question.
Certainly, there’s much I’ve read
Because it simply fell ahead
Of that which first had lured me in,
Yet, I’ll admit, to my chagrin,
That I’ve not bought some magazines
When I sought flatulence, not beans,
And didn’t deem the effort worth it,
Front-to-backwise, to unearth it.
I’m compulsive, that I’ve learned;
At least, though, all my farts are earned.


Applause Limes

I quite regret the text I sent.
Those weren’t at all the words I meant.
I’m coming deeply to resent
Autocorrect. Clap flatulent!

Cognitive Flatulence

Don’t you hate when someone asks
You something that you know by heart
And then that simplest of tasks–
Just spit it out–becomes Brain Fart!

A long-time colleague, in a meeting,
Needs an intro to a guest,
And though you said her name in greeting
Right outside, you fail the test.

“What’s your home phone number?” Clearly
Not a Mensa-level quiz,
It still can tax your senses dearly:
“Dude, I’m clueless what it is.”

It isn’t just because I’m aging,
I’ve been like this from the start.
Trust me, it’s no more enraging
For you than for…crap. Brain Fart!

Date And Switch

A goldfish by his girlfish dumped
Might feel before his friends enchumped
Had he shown off his cumberedness
Too zestfully. Now cumbered less
And clearly bachelorified
If he’d, of late, too glorified
His dancing of the pas de deux
With Miss Now-Missing-You-Know-Who
In manners that he’d second-guess
When they were fin, he’d be a mess.
But though she can’t resist a joke,
Dame Fortune favors finny folk:
Where their affaires du mer may lack
Duration, they’re amnesiac
To such extent that broken hearts
Fade faster than a flounder’s farts
(And flatfish flatulence is known
For transience and dulcet tone).
A formerly-forlorn fish-ex
Won’t mourn for long: His loveship wrecks
At twenty-eight past two; he’s fine
And righted by 2:29.
And what of what his friends might say?
They’ve all forgotten, anyway,
That he had ever been empaired,
So any love triangle’s squared
Before the pain grows too acute
And spiteful jibes are rendered moot,
As is that flaccid maxim we
Recite, re more fish in the sea,
For, really, who needs more than one
If trysts are mists as soon as done?
The goldfish dumper and dumpee
Need only wait a mo’ or three
Before amour again takes hold.
Who wishes they were fish, and gold?


Unicorns, though cute, don’t type
Or file. Don’t believe the hype:
Though unicorns are passing rare
Most folks with work to do won’t care
About its rainbow-tinted flatus
‘Less it helps their filing status;
Spiral horns and braided tails
Are useless if they cost you sales.
In truth, a workplace unicorn
Distracts as much as online porn
And inter-office gossip, so
To office unicorns, say NO.