Enigmatically Silly

Why aren't riddles called puzzles,

and puzzles called logic twisters?

I don't know.

The math always tries to blend in

with the words

but blurs it all for me.

Teasing my brain is better than my hair,

I guess,

but I am often wrong

Rhetorically,

metaphorically

brain building blitzes

that run by you when you're looking

literally,

even spelled out

like a seven letter word

-(minus two letters)

equals eight,

more than its own weight.

See, it discombobulates

and misstates and

calls this a ball?

I figured it's more like a cold,

which can be caught

but not tossed (out)

with the enigma.

Image By Formanavt (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Little Ms. Pants on Fire

My black jacket with the fur-rimmed hood
whispered in my ear yesterday,
that one day
we will go live in the snow.
Although, we don't talk much,
since I live near (warm) San Diego
(now) it has been cold
so we've been friendly lately.
Then, when
I was having dinner
with a lemon verbena candle
the other night, thyme on the table
I read something interesting,
which actually gave me quite a fright-
but the candle jumped in and uttered a spark,
'You wont die in the dark-
and it wont be from fire,
those words were written by a liar!
Tho', idle fears, I have years and
I don't necessarily think so-
acrophobia,  arachnophobia and pyromania.
Fear, Love and Webs, scary things
to get tangled in.
To things I harbor like hobos
And as I begin to listen in
to assorted precocious objects,
threadbare trinkets and baubles that pop
I harbor like lazy houseguests,
I still hear the ring of fear
in the old quaking clock
five-fifty-five-tic-tock
five-fifty-five-tock-tic
I was told
this fateful mortal time
I accommodate and appropriate,
still chimes in my head.
My watch has no comment,

it's face, expressionless
and lays like a remora, leech.
I proceed  with today anyway

as though I too, 

have no need to know
such sagacious

miscellaneous things

such as where, and when, by how

I will die, not now

from animated things with no eyes
who see my future
and how it
lies. 

Composed 1/18/16.

Image by By Jon Sullivan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Flash flood

On the day of Epiphany

the sky floated dirty grey sponges,

called storm clouds by some

which wrench and wring overhead

my tin box called a truck

for the second after-

noon, awaiting the bell, it begins to flood.

El Niño, they all point, name, and blame-

not the children though, who don't know

him yet and squeal at the thunder in de-

light-ning, claps all around.

An ominous sound to

a sitting truck, quaking the floorboards rumble,

but I am grounded, in technical terms.

Rivers run along the roads,

gurgling gutters are choking

on the leaves and it is okay,

I had nothing to say today,

anyway. Listening to the lights

blur and sob, struck dark as night

at two-until a conflicting flash, a

sneaking streak, the epiphany speaks,

Time is not everything.

The wind is whipping

laterally, bending palms

like cracking knuckles

lumber joints that prefer

dancing with Saint Ana and yet

a seasonal storm is all winter needs

to feel right

on Time...

Pouring my heart out into the rain,

watching all my words spool and eddy

washing away, skipping over school

and strangle the drain

plundering prudence

scatter the slated soggy students.

Composed 1/7/16.

Image by By Eliud Echevarria (This image is from the FEMA Photo Library.) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

(Lip) Service with a Smile

A man walks into a bar

and sits between

an insurance salesman

and an off-duty security guard.

The three are there,

all six i's

for the bartenders two bouncy breasts

and cheap smile.

The man in the middle

is an accountant.

They are all regular(s)

Men

with regular needs

like thirst

and confidentiality.

She serves them all

on the house

this one

with a wink-another drink?

As a matter of course,

they all obey

(after all-

she's doing her job)

with she-grin.

What do you call a bi-polar accountant?

The salesman asks,

'Off-balance',

he says first.

The security guard

responds to the call,

I heard

insurance agents do it

with third parties,

he says smugly.

Go figure,

the accountant

in the red (tie) said,

Did you hear about

the guy that lost his left arm

and left leg in a car crash-

Well, he's all right now.

The bartender tosses back

two cents,

What's the difference between a job

and a career?

One is,

the other does.

Nobody laughs.

A cell phone rings,

the men all nervously check-

his wife is calling

for help.

A new message awaits him.

A call ignored for now, he’s too busy

to protect the innocent,

for she who does not work,

for a living.

It was the last call

to come in

on the punch line. 

Image of painting by Édouard Manet [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Upping the Anti-cipation

Something was supposed to happen today

-yet didn't

I was ready for the news

-yet wasn't

prepared for the magnitude of the mundane

-yet mustn't

fret over the idle moment that moves in

-yet wouldn't mind

staying and waiting with me

-yet I couldn't

stand my own company, so I cancelled

our future plans

since I did not want to wait around until

the end

only to find

Something not supposed to be

(for me)

-yet nothing did

Significant-

(ly).

Composed 1/7/16.
Image of painting By Pascual Carlos Esteban (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Knock on would

When your back is against the wall,

you must turn around and face it-

when you do, 

you will notice 

it was a door

all along.

Image by By Bill Jacobus [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

From Experience

Work ethic?
I never stop working
on ethics, and asking, is it working,
aesthetically?
I know what I'm talking about
from experience,
in the past tense and future sense
I've done that and been aware
I was not cut out
from the same mold, jagged edges
don't pass QC, since praise
and raises don't have my name
on the double-check
dough and owe.

Oh, I've tried,
O how many I've plied,
bonafide with holdings
slanging sammies for many
new deli's, pounding dough,
hot and slow and the pizza parlor,
rise and shine, bussing and breakfast,
sticky sweet and greasy spoons
to rendezvous at posh hotels,
the grand in safe, directing your calls,
taking others vacations in reservations
before valet, all meager pay.

High rises collect
low lifes.
As assistant
two left arm(s), right hand, Girl Friday,
to many, many, many,
so many wealthy men,
that dropped the i
from the deal.

Oh the plethora of ends
that never met, quit and ceased,
fired, uninspired,
attendance was
unfortunately
required.

Dream jobs,
bookstores, cafe's library,
florist, sophist
tick-ated, métiered,
tending bar, mending egos,
pouring poisons, emptying passion-
flower, ugly and dry.
From fast food to soul food,
liquid lunches and
bouncers pulling punches.

Figuring it out, adding it all up,
frisk-ally, the audit shows
the bottom line, a negative balance,
in the red.
So before I'm dead
I will find the write
position,
the only occupation
worth my ply and in-
vocation,
my gift of storied salvation.


Image by Lewis Hine [Public domain or Public domain], Working on steam-pump c. 1920 via Wikimedia Commons.