Methaphor

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Checking you out checking out
Maximum packs of pills
Some cold you got there, lady

Bags of refined crystals for me
Socially acceptable RDA implosion
Dying slow, but dying too

You don’t smile, you don’t have one
Fingers to face, worrying at it
Eyes here, there, at me, don’t see

I tug my shirt over my tell
Breathing hard from standing still
Hungry to hate, settling for you

I’ll go straight to the needle
Finger sticks to pay a different piper
Both buying to use ourselves up


I used to self-medicate depression with sugar. I had a high-stress career and a lifetime of bad habits behind me, and I’d buy a couple of candy bars on the way home from work just to deal with the anxiety.

At one of my stops, I ran across a couple, both buying four boxes of generic Sudafed. Not rocket science to figure that out. With age I find greater compassion, and I realize that we all cope somehow.

I’ve broken the candy habit, for the most part, and I’m not on my way to the DIABEETUS.  The depression is mostly mild and comes and goes.  I still want a bag of candy, I just don’t buy one.  I hope those folks are in a similar place.

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Subpart D, Paragraph 2

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don’t get your shoes wet
small lawyers got around that
technicality


I don’t actually begrudge them this particular adventure–I’d be worried if they didn’t immediately and desperately want to play in every creek they see.  He was waging a losing battle against the water skippers, flinging mud and small stones only to watch them regroup in an instant.  I believe next time he will request a flame thrower.

An Eclogue for Friday

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Well, Fred, how are the sheep?
Fine so far, nary a peep.
What’s that in your lunch today?
It’s supposed to be leftover soufflé,
But after four hours, it’s sort of pourable.
Hmm. Guess soufflé isn’t portable.


After the week we’ve all had, I thought we deserved a nice bucolic eclogue.

Bad Poem-a-Day August is winding down, only six left to go.  There’s that sonnet that I’d like to finish when I can concentrate, and who knows what else?  Not even me.

Backseat Blitz

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Our summer traveling in the car
Started out kind of rough.
The squabbling children escalated
Until I’d had more than enough.

They screeched and fought every minute
With intent to harm and disturb
Until I PULLED THIS CAR OVER RIGHT NOW
And sat them down on the curb.

I gave them quite a lesson there
Right by the side of the road.
They thought they might be walking home
From a two towns away zip code.

I let them back in on conditions
Which since then, they’ve mostly met.
Like all siblings, they bicker,
About things they should just forget.

This normal silly bickering, though,
I find easier to survive.
In an imagined car of silence,
I switch to internal drive.


It turns out, I’m not quite able to compose a rhymed English sonnet in iambic pentameter while I’m driving.  I was in the car for 5+ hours today, and while I usually do compose verse in my head on the road, keeping track of the syllables and rhyme structure without writing anything down was too much.  So I let my brain make this, not at all inspired by anything that did/did not happen in the backseat today.

Also…this may/may not be a completely true story.

The Wee Knight

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potty poem


I found this little vignette all set up for me, and the play on “throne” was too delightful to pass up.

As a side note, I apologize for the crappy quality of the poem type.  I had to insert that as a picture translated through three programs, because I could not get the formatting to work no matter how much HTML I crammed in there.  An hour later, I decided that it added a certain “vintage” quality to the poetry and it’s actually the best.

I promised myself that I’m going to write a sonnet for tomorrow, just because I haven’t done that since high school.  Dusting the rust off the iambs right now.

Vegetation Lamentation

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To say a child grows like a weed
Is rather unfair to the kid.
While children eventually do move out,
I’ve never seen a weed that did.


We weed and weed, and still we weep.  Oregon is where noxious plants settle to raise their families.  They move in and holler “Sanctuary!  Sanctuary!” whenever we start pulling them up.  We feel so sorry for them and their little tykes, we just don’t have the heart to—yeah, you’re not buying that, are you?  Would you believe we have terrible allergies?  No?  Hmmm.  At least they’re all organic.

#nopesauce

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I said no mayo
but you knew better than I
food that was, is trash


I have been Team #nomayo my entire life, and not because I haven’t tried it–I’ve unwillingly tried it 100s of times.  Eventually you master the Scrape & Drown.  Scrape as much of the mayo off as possible, then drown the contaminated food in any other available sauce.  You can still taste the biohazard, but you can trick yourself into thinking it won’t kill you.