Clever Poetry Publication

It’s hard to find the right poem
for “Clever Poetry Publication”

Something ‘hardy har har?’
No, way too trite and meh

Something ‘weepy weepy?’
Yes, but not quite so weepy

Disjointed? Well, of course

It can’t have those wishy-washy
metaphors or ones we’ve seen before

In fact, your meaning has to be so so
Obscuro that well, there is no meaning

Does it have any je ne sais? “Oh, loads
of it!” Editor #1 says to very cute, very cute
Editor #2 with those spectacles and the
joie de vivre hair color from Laurelle Paris

When I look at my stuff, it’s all like:
Too much concrete! Not enough postmodern goop!

Then I slink away, reduced to nothing
but bottom-of-shoe-ooze

What happens when you push back
a little and make fun of “Clever Poetry Publication?”

“I dunno,” I say out loud to a room full of nobody
“I guess we’ll find out”


Writing Prompt: The Witch

Today, your son is born. You are elated for the future in store, but then you remember that in your teenage years, you promised a witch your first born son in exchange for a spell. You reluctantly tell your spouse only to find out that she has promised your first born to a different witch. needs a bacon critic … this is me throwing my hat into the ring.

Bacon with your pancakes? Obviously.
Bacon on your hamburger? Yes (unequivocally).
Bacon bits on your donut? (surprised) Please!
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

It’s 4:35 in the am. I roll over and feel the assorted liquors sloshing in my stomach. Last night was a blast, but was it indeed, worth it? The age-old question on every (bachelor) party-goer’s mind.

The last bar was a mistake. None of us were even conscious. Dancing like boneless, mindless, gelatinous, undead things; with just as much rhythm. We were however, the life of the party – almost forcing people to join our debauchery – how our mothers would be proud.

Even more of a mistake than the bar, was the street fare from food trucks. A kebab should never be green no matter what country it’s from!

Face down in the tan carpet, I pass back out until 7:15am dreaming of falling ill at sea aboard a sinking pirate ship, captained by none other than the perpetually disappointed, Mrs. Shugg, my elementary school reading teacher.

Then something breaks my slumber.

Something unmistakable. Something devine.

You know what it is. I don’t have to tell you that it is made of pork belly. I don’t have to tell you that the ideal strips are that perfect blend of succulent and crispy. Eggs’ forever counterpart, going together like jam’s synonym and spreadable peanuts.

It’s Bacon motha lickas! (Sorry, that’s the unfortunate name I affectionately call my friends)

Somehow that hangover is all gone. I seem to have energy to burn. My legs should ache from carrying the soon-to-be-groom on my shoulders all last night, but they do not.

Why you ask?

Because it’s bacon motha lickas!

The smell, it always starts there: smoked meat that seems somehow candied like your favorite burbon-whiskey. Wafting into the room of 10 men sleeping on the floor, covering their disgraceful scent with something heaven sent (damn, I is so clever).

The sizzle: fats frying in grease might as well be the national anthem (and Ron Swanson our president).

The taste: oh the taste!. They say red meat is going to kill us. I say, I’d rather die with freedom in my mouth than live a life without bacon!

You don’t need an alarm clock after a bachelor’s weekend if someone brings the bacon. That’s the kind of power I can get behind … the power to set time.