Most tissue boxes have patterns printed
with wavy lines, paisleys, arcs or dots.
And colors ranging from simple to gaudy.
But few are perfect for my home and
why should they be? I mean,
unless every box had an infinite palate
and a nuclear skin that could explode
into every shape imaginable how
could the tissue box artist know
what I need out of tissue box art?
There is no universal art in
my universe, that is to say I
have never found it so. But
I usually get lucky and
find a tissue box that works
well enough with my décor.
Hate is such a lovely word
When conferred upon a lonely man
Who sits atop a lonely hill
And watches watchers waiting madly;
Waiting gladly for his fall
Teeth bared, blood lust, cancers all.
They hate him ‘cause he looks unlike them
Reeks of power in his control
Something wicked listens paltry
(He is us though they are not he)
Given no more than an inch
They recoil from being benched
But all fault lies with them because
There’s never been a thought of love
Yet hate rains fire from above
And below and all sides round he
Weathers storms upon him hove
He smiles upon the ware wolf horde
‘cause hate is such a lovely word
When conferred upon a lonely man
Who right the wrongs too vast to number
Then sits to service without slumber
And wears their vengeance like a badge
I wrote this poem a few months ago but I can’t remember the product that inspired it. I just remember that the font of the text looked different from most of the “back of package” writing I usually see.
There’s something highly appealing to me about poetry that addresses aspects of technology. And it’s not just poetry. Some of my favorite photography subjects are power poles.
It’s starting to feel like Fall
Cool mornings, apples, pears
A few leaves coming down
But not so many that
We forget it’s still Summer
If only for a few more days
Here’s a little poem I wrote nearly 20 years ago. I must have been very tired.
Cynthia Path was no good at math
You could tell by the way she subtracted.
For one from two made kangaroo stew,
And three from four made two pots more
So from her grade points were subtracted.
Upon a ship bound for no port
I spied a waiter waiting widely
So I spoke to him in short
I ordered waffles of a sort,
And sat there gazing at the sea
Its breakers breaking snidely.
No waffles came that day I sailed
Though many pancakes dipped the bow.
Where was the waiter whom I hailed?
I feel that he has greatly failed
To render service due somehow
And all I am is hungry now.
From throngs of angry communists
who longed for Bar-B-Ques
we’ve been gifted something dear
though I’m not sure of its use
A “holiday” devoid of fun
Lacking gifts or songs to sing
ironic that on Labor Day
we sit home and do nothing.
The consequence of
a painting I
observed in a book
is this poem.
With simple strokes it
came to life and
in my mind
set its hook
light and dark play
havoc with my
sense of depth and
can meaning lie in
If none is found then
art is maddening
Two desks sat in a hall
each with its own color and tone
both in their boxes again
though this wasn’t the case earlier when
I had them uncased and they were compared
to other specimens in my home.
But they didn’t really compare
since they came from different worlds
Or did they compare?
Confusion sets in.
Does any of it matter anyway?
This process has more
back and forths
than any tennis match.
How many times did I seal them up
only to slide the knife down their box’s spine
and expose them to the air once more?
It’s so easy to forget
what something looks like
once it’s taped up in our memory.
But now I’m quite sure
neither of these will work
so it’s back to searching
for the perfect shade of veneer.