Sometimes, in the reckless years
when Dad would still pay for the car
we would play that game, convinced
of the pseudotherapeutic value of the dare,
drive as long as we could
on abandoned roads
with the headlights off.
These days,
I play the same game at parties,
where the hazards are worse
and the guardrails intangible
but I keep the headlights on.
It’s that kind of blouse.
No compass
but the cow-tongued variations
of cocktail solipsists,
I make my way through the voices, confident
in the predictable courtesy of strangers
to step aside
for the blind woman.
All the better
when I find that one immovable object
and get a good sense
through the spilled wine apologies
that I have found the trunk
of the elephant in the room.
--
Why, it's yet another poem for that tireless activist, Fringe volunteer and all-around fun gal Sandra Diaz! What would we have done without Sandra? Probably gone to bed sober a lot more often, that's for damn sure.
Not the best poem I did for Sandra, but definitely not the worst. Her poems were usually some high-minded storytelling I would try to pull out of my ass about 15 minutes in, or cheap innuendo. I think maybe this started out as the first and ended up as the second. Elephant trunk! Get it?
Showing posts with label tod. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tod. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Blue is the Color of the Sky on Tuesday
She was the giving kind
as she wondered at lunchtime
in the shadow of the storm
as she stared at the wayward clouds
what they saw
when they looked down:
Droplets of humanity
swarming into their humungous schools
in plazas
and parking lots,
what must we seem
to gods with such aptitude for shape?
Obtuse images of dragons
puppy dogs, elephants
fat fairy tale refugees
faces of old lovers
or perhaps
just another passing cloud
like them
mindless of these fancies and masquerades
only making their way
through the blue
on their way to the next rain.
---
This one's just full of mysteries. I have a fuzzy recall on exactly how this title got picked, or who picked it. It obviously wasn't literally inspired, as anyone who was actually under the sky during Fringe can tell you. But that's all secondary to the main question:
Exactly what kind of fluffy Bob Ross bullshit was I trying to write here?
as she wondered at lunchtime
in the shadow of the storm
as she stared at the wayward clouds
what they saw
when they looked down:
Droplets of humanity
swarming into their humungous schools
in plazas
and parking lots,
what must we seem
to gods with such aptitude for shape?
Obtuse images of dragons
puppy dogs, elephants
fat fairy tale refugees
faces of old lovers
or perhaps
just another passing cloud
like them
mindless of these fancies and masquerades
only making their way
through the blue
on their way to the next rain.
---
This one's just full of mysteries. I have a fuzzy recall on exactly how this title got picked, or who picked it. It obviously wasn't literally inspired, as anyone who was actually under the sky during Fringe can tell you. But that's all secondary to the main question:
Exactly what kind of fluffy Bob Ross bullshit was I trying to write here?
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Where Do Puppets Go When They Die
There are clouds
softer than the dance floors of our angels.
There are songs
too wide for our mouths
and they’re singing them,
swaying,
googly blackberry eyes bouncing along
with a beat that turned the world
back when we watched it spin
from the cradle.
There are no sinners here
in this exclusive club of sinners
and serendipitous
may be too many grades above their conversation
but supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
is the universal response to howdy-do.
The hugs are sparks of static electricity
and they dance
footloose and invisible
along the aisles of the theatre
as the orchestra plays:
menomenah
and they sing:
do doo de doo doo
and teach us all to count the small numbers again.
Somewhere there are no strings
and they look down
to see all of us
reaching up for them
never quite making it.
---
Sometimes you get a title so ripe it just paralyzes you. I remember Paul got into the same situation a couple times: A poem with words or a title good enough to write itself, so you end up sitting around for ten of your twenty minutes, chewing your pen while you wait for it to write itself.
So yeah, the ending was supposed to be this sort of very clear image with puppets floating free from outstretched hands, and - ah, shit, here comes the lady who ordered this thing, better wrap it up. Ouch. So close!
softer than the dance floors of our angels.
There are songs
too wide for our mouths
and they’re singing them,
swaying,
googly blackberry eyes bouncing along
with a beat that turned the world
back when we watched it spin
from the cradle.
There are no sinners here
in this exclusive club of sinners
and serendipitous
may be too many grades above their conversation
but supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
is the universal response to howdy-do.
The hugs are sparks of static electricity
and they dance
footloose and invisible
along the aisles of the theatre
as the orchestra plays:
menomenah
and they sing:
do doo de doo doo
and teach us all to count the small numbers again.
Somewhere there are no strings
and they look down
to see all of us
reaching up for them
never quite making it.
---
Sometimes you get a title so ripe it just paralyzes you. I remember Paul got into the same situation a couple times: A poem with words or a title good enough to write itself, so you end up sitting around for ten of your twenty minutes, chewing your pen while you wait for it to write itself.
So yeah, the ending was supposed to be this sort of very clear image with puppets floating free from outstretched hands, and - ah, shit, here comes the lady who ordered this thing, better wrap it up. Ouch. So close!
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Waiting
It has been scientifically proven
in carnivals worldwide
that one cannot eat a funnel cake
and be sexy
but here she was, proof positive
an anomaly in red.
Every maxim is a theory
just waiting for time to disprove it,
he thought,
and he certainly did his share
of waiting: clock-watching
for that rare bird of quitting time
at work, loping out to the mailbox
to mark another day
until the paycheck came,
and here,
standing at the beer tent
between a laughing couple
at least two beers ahead
and her.
The bawdy jokes over his shoulder
did nothing for the torture
and still, he couldn’t help
inflicting a little extra
in the long silence between them
in the wait to pay for his courage
and calculate his chances
which as usual
were scientifically
astronomical.
---
BORRRing. That's my hindsight, anyway. It especially stings that I wrote this one for local poetry diva and Sunscribbles founder Darlyn Finch. I believe her custom words were "funnel cake," "beer," and "torture," all fantastic ingredients. All I think is that I must have been really tired not to come up with something bawdier.
in carnivals worldwide
that one cannot eat a funnel cake
and be sexy
but here she was, proof positive
an anomaly in red.
Every maxim is a theory
just waiting for time to disprove it,
he thought,
and he certainly did his share
of waiting: clock-watching
for that rare bird of quitting time
at work, loping out to the mailbox
to mark another day
until the paycheck came,
and here,
standing at the beer tent
between a laughing couple
at least two beers ahead
and her.
The bawdy jokes over his shoulder
did nothing for the torture
and still, he couldn’t help
inflicting a little extra
in the long silence between them
in the wait to pay for his courage
and calculate his chances
which as usual
were scientifically
astronomical.
---
BORRRing. That's my hindsight, anyway. It especially stings that I wrote this one for local poetry diva and Sunscribbles founder Darlyn Finch. I believe her custom words were "funnel cake," "beer," and "torture," all fantastic ingredients. All I think is that I must have been really tired not to come up with something bawdier.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
An Inconvenient Spoof
We're back! Like Girl Scout Cookie season, the literary vacation I like to call the Poetry Vending Machine has come and gone too soon. If you're here, you were probably part of the circle jerk, so I'll keep the re-intro short: I'll be posting up poems here that were created during the '09 Orlando Fringe at the Poetry Vending Machine. Yes, even the bad ones, along with a little commentary. We wrote these for passerby in 20 minutes or less, using a title of their creation and three words that we had to use somewhere in the poem.
Let's start at the end, shall we? I wrote this one for Karate Guy cast member and go-to local actor Eric Pinder for his Fringe Spoof benefit on the final day of the festival. It was the very last thing written at the booth, and it kind of summed up the whole thing for me. I wrote the first half sitting in the rain under a tent, and finished it up later on at home, drunk on the camaraderie, hilarity and nudity of the Fringe Award show. Also, just plain drunk. I never got to see Eric read it at the show, but I'm told he gave my turd a nice little spit-shine.
Actually, I kinda dig it. Nothing written in 20 minutes on less than a page could sum up my Fringe vacation, but this is in the ballpark.
---
An Inconvenient Spoof
Twenty years hence,
you’ll be paying fifty bucks
plus Ticketmaster fees
because good parties are like zombies:
you can’t keep them underground for long.
Orlando will be just another stop
on the Fringemania tour.
The parking spots will be 30 bucks
but you won’t need shotguns to get them
and the audience will settle politely
into their plush seats
as the curtain opens on Ricki Lake
as Beth Marshall, stage left
booze in one hand
magic wand in the other
and poof
the somber façade of Orlando
the city dutiful
will fall away
as gay burlesque improv monologue dancers
descend from the rafters on wires
to the rousing sounds
of terrible food vendor reggaeton
competing with the shrieks
of children and queens alike.
The theater will be dry,
the best beer tent quotes
will be one-liners,
lost in the sound mix
and the reviews will dismiss the whole mess
as capably acted, ambitious
and precious,
a tall tale too good to be true.
Let's start at the end, shall we? I wrote this one for Karate Guy cast member and go-to local actor Eric Pinder for his Fringe Spoof benefit on the final day of the festival. It was the very last thing written at the booth, and it kind of summed up the whole thing for me. I wrote the first half sitting in the rain under a tent, and finished it up later on at home, drunk on the camaraderie, hilarity and nudity of the Fringe Award show. Also, just plain drunk. I never got to see Eric read it at the show, but I'm told he gave my turd a nice little spit-shine.
Actually, I kinda dig it. Nothing written in 20 minutes on less than a page could sum up my Fringe vacation, but this is in the ballpark.
---
An Inconvenient Spoof
Twenty years hence,
you’ll be paying fifty bucks
plus Ticketmaster fees
because good parties are like zombies:
you can’t keep them underground for long.
Orlando will be just another stop
on the Fringemania tour.
The parking spots will be 30 bucks
but you won’t need shotguns to get them
and the audience will settle politely
into their plush seats
as the curtain opens on Ricki Lake
as Beth Marshall, stage left
booze in one hand
magic wand in the other
and poof
the somber façade of Orlando
the city dutiful
will fall away
as gay burlesque improv monologue dancers
descend from the rafters on wires
to the rousing sounds
of terrible food vendor reggaeton
competing with the shrieks
of children and queens alike.
The theater will be dry,
the best beer tent quotes
will be one-liners,
lost in the sound mix
and the reviews will dismiss the whole mess
as capably acted, ambitious
and precious,
a tall tale too good to be true.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
The Future Is
The future is
sky blue and burnt sienna crayola
jagged and wild
on a piece of yellow construction paper,
a jetpack hero
strafing x’s into the eyes
of the past.
The future is
checking its watch again,
waiting on a lover
to come back home,
flipping the channels
on a thousand early morning dramas
as she sniffs the flowers
on the nightstand.
The future is
the next ragged breath
and the whispered prayer,
the next holy sound
on the hospital monitor
as he holds her hand
through the night
and waits for a smile.
--
That's what they gave me: "The Future Is". Carte blanche except for the title. This was another of our poems from the Red Chair Affair, and possibly one of the more interesting ones. We worked our booth at the pre-show mingle in the lobby, and looking back I wish we'd had more time. I think people were just getting drunk enough to approach us by the time they were calling them in to the theatre, so about a third of our poems were rushed out in the last 20 minutes. Ah well. I just want everybody to know that the downer atmosphere surrounding this poem can be attributed to the fact that I was missing a performance by the Blue Man Group in order to get it done. Could hear them from out in the lobby and everything.
sky blue and burnt sienna crayola
jagged and wild
on a piece of yellow construction paper,
a jetpack hero
strafing x’s into the eyes
of the past.
The future is
checking its watch again,
waiting on a lover
to come back home,
flipping the channels
on a thousand early morning dramas
as she sniffs the flowers
on the nightstand.
The future is
the next ragged breath
and the whispered prayer,
the next holy sound
on the hospital monitor
as he holds her hand
through the night
and waits for a smile.
--
That's what they gave me: "The Future Is". Carte blanche except for the title. This was another of our poems from the Red Chair Affair, and possibly one of the more interesting ones. We worked our booth at the pre-show mingle in the lobby, and looking back I wish we'd had more time. I think people were just getting drunk enough to approach us by the time they were calling them in to the theatre, so about a third of our poems were rushed out in the last 20 minutes. Ah well. I just want everybody to know that the downer atmosphere surrounding this poem can be attributed to the fact that I was missing a performance by the Blue Man Group in order to get it done. Could hear them from out in the lobby and everything.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Thanks, Seth!
The Poetry Vending Machine in the news today, courtesy of a nice little spotlight for J. Bradley's last Broken Speech face-off between myself and Curtis Meyer. Seth Kubersky makes mention of the "cherished" ode to cheese that was written for him and his girl last month in his Live Active Cultures column of the Orlando Weekly.
This would, uh ... this would really be a good time to post that poem up here, huh?
Yep.
I hate my laptop.
This would, uh ... this would really be a good time to post that poem up here, huh?
Yep.
I hate my laptop.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Haikus as packing peanuts
Beauteous
She’s walking softly
in the reeds, parting for her.
A beauteous dance.
-
The mirror, she lies.
You think it’s a compliment.
Nope. Just adjectives.
--
A two-fer on the same subject! This one came about while Tod and I, starved for attention, tackled the same haiku theme for the same price. Two for one! It's like happy hour at the Vending Machine! And it makes excellent filler here until Tod's lappy gets mended.
She’s walking softly
in the reeds, parting for her.
A beauteous dance.
-
The mirror, she lies.
You think it’s a compliment.
Nope. Just adjectives.
--
A two-fer on the same subject! This one came about while Tod and I, starved for attention, tackled the same haiku theme for the same price. Two for one! It's like happy hour at the Vending Machine! And it makes excellent filler here until Tod's lappy gets mended.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Intermission
No poems here, kids. The Vending Machine - which is to say, the laptop that has the poems - is undergoing some maintainance, so I'll be posting a bit less until it's ship-shape again. I still have a few in my pocket (thanks, Curtis!) so I'll be putting those up sharpish. For the time being, you may check this site every other waking moment instead of the constant basis you have grown accustomed to.
While I'm here, though, I'd like to invite y'all to the Orlando Museum of Art for their First Thursday soiree on July 3. Vending Machinists Trevor Fraser, Jesse Ross and Tod Caviness will be painting the air all sorts of purty colors, reading surrealist poetry in conjunction with the "Surrealists' Holiday" theme. Poke your nose into the auditorium at 6:45 and 7:45 pm that night and say howdy.
While I'm here, though, I'd like to invite y'all to the Orlando Museum of Art for their First Thursday soiree on July 3. Vending Machinists Trevor Fraser, Jesse Ross and Tod Caviness will be painting the air all sorts of purty colors, reading surrealist poetry in conjunction with the "Surrealists' Holiday" theme. Poke your nose into the auditorium at 6:45 and 7:45 pm that night and say howdy.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Boinking in the Bouganvillas
I could say the earth had given us a downy bed
the flowers bifurcated
in the gentle approach of your back,
the bees humming a harmony
with your sighs,
but really,
we were boinking.
Straight up barbaric, with your legs
opening into a greater than symbol
with me on the wrong side
and I called you my nutcracker sweet
as we did that dance of love
except really, there were no steps
because we were lying down
because we were fucking.
Sometimes that’s what it is.
They say it’s not OK to be horny
these days, agendas lurking
under the blankets of every stranger’s bed
so we go outside
where the lovebugs fly
in shameful tandem past our faces
and I learn the right places to rub
to quiet the borborygmus butterflies
in your stomach
into a long, slow
shhhhh
but wait,
was that poetry?
Sorry.
I’ll shut up now
and get to work.
by Tod
--
So, uh ... yeah. All my poems are not about sex, OK? I swear. I'm not sure what the deal was with this one. Memory is a little hazy, but I believe it was a joint effort on the part of a lad and his ladyfriend. I do know that he picked the title, and the word "borborygmous" (means a rumbly tummy, basically). The girl then read it out loud in front of me, substituting the word "effing". She actually said "oh my" like she had the vapors or something. Beautiful.
the flowers bifurcated
in the gentle approach of your back,
the bees humming a harmony
with your sighs,
but really,
we were boinking.
Straight up barbaric, with your legs
opening into a greater than symbol
with me on the wrong side
and I called you my nutcracker sweet
as we did that dance of love
except really, there were no steps
because we were lying down
because we were fucking.
Sometimes that’s what it is.
They say it’s not OK to be horny
these days, agendas lurking
under the blankets of every stranger’s bed
so we go outside
where the lovebugs fly
in shameful tandem past our faces
and I learn the right places to rub
to quiet the borborygmus butterflies
in your stomach
into a long, slow
shhhhh
but wait,
was that poetry?
Sorry.
I’ll shut up now
and get to work.
by Tod
--
So, uh ... yeah. All my poems are not about sex, OK? I swear. I'm not sure what the deal was with this one. Memory is a little hazy, but I believe it was a joint effort on the part of a lad and his ladyfriend. I do know that he picked the title, and the word "borborygmous" (means a rumbly tummy, basically). The girl then read it out loud in front of me, substituting the word "effing". She actually said "oh my" like she had the vapors or something. Beautiful.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Love is a Monkey Wrench and I Bolted
She rides motorcycles
and sure, it’s sexy.
She treats her hair
and it’s like being whipped
with cranberry licorice
as we hurtle down the wind tunnel of I-4
but then there is
the maintenance.
The garage smells like old lovers
and I can’t touch her tools
lined up sacred as totems
on the wall.
Her hands are oil and scars
and she slips the wrench
home around the bolt
and twists
so heavy on the metal
I wonder
how she can be so light on the road
how she can grunt like that
and not be hurt.
“It’s a lot of work,”
she says,
“keeping this kitty purring.
You wanna help,
make me a sandwich.”
by Tod
--
Custom words: Cranberry, totem and sandwich. Another one for Sandra Diaz. Probably one of my favorites from the whole week (of mine, anyway). Short. Suggestive. Sexual imagery involving wrenches. Pretty much the whole enchilada.
and sure, it’s sexy.
She treats her hair
and it’s like being whipped
with cranberry licorice
as we hurtle down the wind tunnel of I-4
but then there is
the maintenance.
The garage smells like old lovers
and I can’t touch her tools
lined up sacred as totems
on the wall.
Her hands are oil and scars
and she slips the wrench
home around the bolt
and twists
so heavy on the metal
I wonder
how she can be so light on the road
how she can grunt like that
and not be hurt.
“It’s a lot of work,”
she says,
“keeping this kitty purring.
You wanna help,
make me a sandwich.”
by Tod
--
Custom words: Cranberry, totem and sandwich. Another one for Sandra Diaz. Probably one of my favorites from the whole week (of mine, anyway). Short. Suggestive. Sexual imagery involving wrenches. Pretty much the whole enchilada.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Fringe Crush with Eyeliner
She was second Spartan from the left
in 300: The Musical, the all-female version
or all-something, anyway.
You know how the lights
in the purple venue can be
and this was the Fringe, after all.
After awhile, you get lulled
by the ubiquitous feathers,
dazzled by the architecture of corsets,
dizzy at the thought of climbing high heels,
not knowing what might be up there.
But her: this was androgyny so deep
it might have been whale lust
and I was Ahab
pinning love notes to the mast
with my dick.
I never did find out who or what she was,
out of the makeup and dildo-shaped helmet,
but I saw her everywhere.
Every time that bear began
to dance upon the lawn
I kept looking for semaphore signals
in the swivel of its hips.
The box prison of every painted mime
became my pants.
Wherever you are, Confucious Maximus
I love you, I think,
and I hope somewhere
in the stage of your heart
there’s a comp ticket for me.
by Tod
--
Tip of the hat to the sexy Sandra Diaz on this one, second only to Anna in her support of the poetry vendin'. Custom words: purple, ubiquitous and androgyny. Which means this one, at least, had an excuse for being sort of gay. We will not speak of the many others where I was (a) writing from the point of view of a female or (b) writing glorified letters to Penthouse. I blame the Varietease booth across the lawn.
in 300: The Musical, the all-female version
or all-something, anyway.
You know how the lights
in the purple venue can be
and this was the Fringe, after all.
After awhile, you get lulled
by the ubiquitous feathers,
dazzled by the architecture of corsets,
dizzy at the thought of climbing high heels,
not knowing what might be up there.
But her: this was androgyny so deep
it might have been whale lust
and I was Ahab
pinning love notes to the mast
with my dick.
I never did find out who or what she was,
out of the makeup and dildo-shaped helmet,
but I saw her everywhere.
Every time that bear began
to dance upon the lawn
I kept looking for semaphore signals
in the swivel of its hips.
The box prison of every painted mime
became my pants.
Wherever you are, Confucious Maximus
I love you, I think,
and I hope somewhere
in the stage of your heart
there’s a comp ticket for me.
by Tod
--
Tip of the hat to the sexy Sandra Diaz on this one, second only to Anna in her support of the poetry vendin'. Custom words: purple, ubiquitous and androgyny. Which means this one, at least, had an excuse for being sort of gay. We will not speak of the many others where I was (a) writing from the point of view of a female or (b) writing glorified letters to Penthouse. I blame the Varietease booth across the lawn.
Katastrophe
It seemed like such a good idea at the time.
The place was fine
for a blanket to curl up on,
just needed a helping paw or two
to really get it purring.
We waited until Kevin was gone
and Rowdy got to work on the bathroom,
which was pointless, really,
so he filled the toilet with gravel,
shredded the reading basket magazines
into something we could use.
Hush got the bedroom,
a simple matter
of spreading out the cat hair
and rumpling the sheets.
Turned out there was not enough yarn
and so Kevin’s ripped up shirts
would have to do.
Tye had the toughest time in the living room
resurfacing the walls for scratching posts,
getting the sides of the sofa just right
and laying out dead mice and lizards
for party guests.
We’re no Trading Spaces
and nothing worth doing is easy
but really,
there was no need for the look on his face.
Maybe next time,
more fuschia.
by Tod
--
My custom words: Rowdy, Hush and Tye. The names of Kevin's cats.
So hopefully this will get some more writers participating next year. I had a surprising number of people turn me down, saying that they just didn't do well under pressure, didn't want their substandard poems out there in the public forum, yada yada blah.
Oh really? You mean like this? Go ahead. Laugh, you fuckers. I am the Elephant Man of poetry and I will not hide my ugliness. Just wait until I post the aluminum poem.
The place was fine
for a blanket to curl up on,
just needed a helping paw or two
to really get it purring.
We waited until Kevin was gone
and Rowdy got to work on the bathroom,
which was pointless, really,
so he filled the toilet with gravel,
shredded the reading basket magazines
into something we could use.
Hush got the bedroom,
a simple matter
of spreading out the cat hair
and rumpling the sheets.
Turned out there was not enough yarn
and so Kevin’s ripped up shirts
would have to do.
Tye had the toughest time in the living room
resurfacing the walls for scratching posts,
getting the sides of the sofa just right
and laying out dead mice and lizards
for party guests.
We’re no Trading Spaces
and nothing worth doing is easy
but really,
there was no need for the look on his face.
Maybe next time,
more fuschia.
by Tod
--
My custom words: Rowdy, Hush and Tye. The names of Kevin's cats.
So hopefully this will get some more writers participating next year. I had a surprising number of people turn me down, saying that they just didn't do well under pressure, didn't want their substandard poems out there in the public forum, yada yada blah.
Oh really? You mean like this? Go ahead. Laugh, you fuckers. I am the Elephant Man of poetry and I will not hide my ugliness. Just wait until I post the aluminum poem.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Debit Daunter
I always know
from the curt and desperate sound of the ring
when he calls
and I let my voice go light
as the letters he writes me:
“Hello?”
“Ma’am,” he says,
“I’d like to talk to you
about options for erasing your debt.”
“Oooh,” I say.
“I’d like that.”
He’s not used to this kind of eccentricity
so he pauses before he tells me
about interest rates,
payment plans.
And I tell him how much I wouldn’t mind
being in his debt,
a man with a mind for hard numbers,
I’m sure he could keep things straight.
I ask him if his legal vocabulary
has room for words like
luxurious
delicious
hell, luxolicious.
I ask if his interest rates
are going up.
Then I hang up
and wonder what the rest of his day
must be like.
He owes me.
--
One of mine, and I actually know the custom words I got for this one:
light
eccentricity
(and yes,) luxolicious
I was always tickled how people really struggled to come up with their 3 words. I mean, agonized over that shit. I think a lot of people were in "screw it" mode by the third one, and it would either end up being something generically poetic like "love" or way out in left field like "luxolicious".
from the curt and desperate sound of the ring
when he calls
and I let my voice go light
as the letters he writes me:
“Hello?”
“Ma’am,” he says,
“I’d like to talk to you
about options for erasing your debt.”
“Oooh,” I say.
“I’d like that.”
He’s not used to this kind of eccentricity
so he pauses before he tells me
about interest rates,
payment plans.
And I tell him how much I wouldn’t mind
being in his debt,
a man with a mind for hard numbers,
I’m sure he could keep things straight.
I ask him if his legal vocabulary
has room for words like
luxurious
delicious
hell, luxolicious.
I ask if his interest rates
are going up.
Then I hang up
and wonder what the rest of his day
must be like.
He owes me.
--
One of mine, and I actually know the custom words I got for this one:
light
eccentricity
(and yes,) luxolicious
I was always tickled how people really struggled to come up with their 3 words. I mean, agonized over that shit. I think a lot of people were in "screw it" mode by the third one, and it would either end up being something generically poetic like "love" or way out in left field like "luxolicious".
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