A Gas

Such a pure face, smoothly breathing while sleeping.

Earned relaxed rest because life isn’t always calm.

I think she dreams well.

She deserves that with the everyday. Even when on the couch.

Good, cool, smart, funny.

That’s what counts.

Growing up is hard, I did it and I know.

It all works out, it does.

It’s swell.

And sometimes you meet those who help and last.

What a gas.

Baloney

Food? Food!

Kinda rude to write about

what you love that fucks people up.

Society, you know, and corporate profits.

So much to read when you’re just

hungry for what you were raised on.

Sure wasn’t raisins.

Do we eat and get cancer or does cancer

consume and ignore regardless?

Food! Food?

Want a sandwich without worrying about the baloney

and what baloney is.

Baloney was my go to every day as a kid.

So many former kids now kidding themselves

every day about the urge to revisit.

Unless they’re advanced.

What a lovely happenstance.

Cheap, salty, and stupid.

Can’t explain.

Can’t understand true love.

Belt Count

 

I’m at a point in my life where I’m between belt holes,

a dilemma in leather,

a toss-up as to whether

or not to choose

number three or number four.

Hole four’s tight, though not nauseously so,

hole three’s not so loose as to comically produce

a pants-falling slapstick show.

But neither’s a natural fit

any way you slice it.

I’m in the middle,

Between openings,

At a perforation in life.

Adrift at an inch

no designer cares about.

How come a 37 waist (or, ok, 43)

Doesn’t carry any clout?

Why skip odd numbers,

when odd numbers

represent

some of us at our best?

It’s no catastrophe,

I’m just miffed that it has to be

this way when you’re getting dressed.