A Poem for my Mom Who’s Son still Pee’s in his Bed

Sometimes my thoughts
embarrass her
like a little kid who still
pee’s in his bed at age 12.
Whose sleep and dreams
are too peaceful
to be tossed away for protocol.

I’m an adult.
I still piss on myself
but in my head.

My mind mentally pisses
a stream of thought
after thought
after thought
into the toilet ears
of normality.

I would rather piss
on myself
and lie
in a urine soaked bed
of imagination
than be disturbed
by the dictates
of social norms.

My mom
however
always blushes
and with her apology worded wash cloth
cleans up my mental mess.

Ones and Zeros and the Lack of You

Veronica in the email you wrote about your anger
and our dysfunction.
The one’s and zero’s filtered through your computer,
others’ computers, and finally my computer
does not express who we are.
Printing your e-mail I see
what you learned in grade school.
What you forgot, Microsoft Word fills in the rest.
Our lives took on more than symbolism.

Please write me a letter.
I want to see how stable
your pen is in perfectly shaped sentences.
Then watch the words take on your madness
with each crossed out thought
and sloppy caricature.
Remember last winter when you went to get
the mail and the kids, Bob and Bev, locked the house door.
At first you tried knocking politely then smashed
the window pane to let yourself in.

I want to see your fingerprints’
images smudged in black ink.
Do you recall holding hands in bed
while reading?
The comfortable silence between the two of us.
Not always having to
entertain with sex, booze, or conversation.
Only needing two books and touch to sustain
love.

I want to smell and see where you are.
Take me to Denny’s with the odor of cigarette smoke
and coffee stained saturated paper.
Do you remember eating mozzarella cheese sticks
at 2:30AM after dancing?

I want to find the short black curly hair
that shows up in the oddest places.
To recall one last time the night in
Salt Lake City where we impregnated our
dreams into our heads and bodies that eventually
blossomed into who we were—man and wife.
If nothing else, a piece of DNA to show my friends
“this is you.”

I want to see a tear stain
where love use to be.

I want to hold as much of you
as I can one last time.

Promise me our relationship
was more to you
then ones and zeros.

My Armpits Smell like a Car Air Freshner

Part 1

The California draught has NOT been exacerbated by the few gardeners
who use potable water
to feed their spinach and arugula pizza toppings.

It’s people like me
the bank teller
data entry person
receptionist
accountant
telemarketer
IT
loan officer

who everyday
remove the chemical coat
of makeup, deodorants, and after shaves
with a long long long shower.

I rub myself down with,
“Avon so soft & sensual creamy body wash.”

All over my face I squirt,
“Yes to Cucumbers Gentle Milk Facial Cleanser.”

Then massage into my hair,
“Big Sexy Hair Marylin Monroe Limited Edition Volumizing Dry Shampoo.”

PART 2

During my 9 to 5 work week.  I sit in a chemically doused office.
My body never touches a sprinkle of grime or a pinch of dirt.

MY fingers never type so fast
to make my armpits give off a foul odor.

MY legs never so ardously
stand still behind a desk
to where my crotch becomes stinky.

MY eyes never laborously flicker
at such a rate in front of the monitor
that it makes my forehead perspire.

Corporate cubicle culture expects the worker b’s to smell like Target.
Middle management must smell like Macy’s.

I appreciate that Cambria has chosen to sacrifice the vegetable garden for those of us who need are bodies to smell like a recently deodorized hotel room
or detailed automobile.

These are my thoughts,

Veronica Wonderful

Hair Poem part 4

Waiting for the Rain

Our cars have so much fun
when they play in the drinking water
getting baths
that make them look shiny

Your car looks
better than you
and we’re all going thirsty
as we wait for the rain

Moon Handbook: Santa Barbara and the Central Coast discovers the musical talent of Brandon Follett

It’s true! I’ll play guests a song or recite a poem at the Bridge Street Inn.  Pick up a Moon Handbook at your local bookstore or at the Moon website.

 

The Eggs Won’t Spoil and the Sperm Won’t Rot Abridged Song

Brandon Follett met Eddy Surman at the Bridge Street Inn. Eddy stopped in on his motorcycle ride down to Patagonia. While Eddy explored the Central Coast of California they started working on music. Here’s their collaboration.

Brandon Follett on vocals and lyrics
Eddy Surman on guitar

Follow Eddy’s adventures at http://eddy.adventureriders.com.au

Cambria Plants the Obama Avocado Tree

Charles:  I agree there needs to be more than two lonely picnic tables at the park on Bridge Street.  Does Cambria have the budget for a tank, anti-aircraft guns or a fighter jet?  There’s nothing more thrilling than making a homemade avocado veggie sandwich next to a tank.  I pulverize the sandwich like a tank blowing up an Iraqi citizen home.  Yummmm

 

Sally:  I take guys to parks with weapons.  I make up a little love basket consisting of wine and cheese.  I get my date all drunk underneath the anti-aircraft gun.  Weapons get the men in the mood to conquer and dominate- that’s how I like it.

Betty:  There’s not enough money in the budget to purchase fancy killing machines like tanks or anti-aircraft guns.  Maybe Cambrians can rally around a project where the community will donate knives, guns, and lead pipes.  Granted, these weapons aren’t as glamorous as a tank that can obliterate a hospital or a fighter jet that can light a village and forest on fire with napalm.   As seen by the Sandy Hook Mass murder the proper hand held weapon can sure leave a lot of people dead!!!!! Bang Bang Slash Slash Thump Thump.

The crowd cheers. Hands point finger guns at each other.  Arms make thumping and slashing motions.

Jim:  I love the idea of guns, knives, and lead pipes in the park.  Except the Cambria budget can’t afford the orange cones and yellow tape to make the area safe.  What if a person trips over a lead pipe in the park?  That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.

Jack:  Okay Okay at this time physical weapons do not seem like a viable option.  Why don’t we plant a tree named after a violent person.  For example the largest tree in the world goes by the name General Sherman, found in the National Sequoia Park.  General William Tecumseh Sherman fought theAmericans in the south.  He is credited with the scorched Earth policy that is used today in such places as Darfur.

This wonderfully violent man also had a tank named after him called the M4 Sherman.  This version of the General killed plenty of Germans and Japanese.

The crowd, “Hurray for the General!”

Bob raises his hand,  “I think we should plant a tree named after Charlie Manson.  He’s a relevant killer who still lives in California.”

Karen: “I have been a huge fan since 1969.  I respect Mr. Manson’s style of leadership, music and his commitment to fans.  He mails a hand written response to every fan letter.  However I think I speak for the majority of Cambrians when I tell you we should only glorify legalized murder.”

The crowd cheers and yells, “Legalized Murder!”

Karen:  “I nominate President Obama.  He has set a new standard for legalized murder.  He bombs and kills civilians with out declaring war.  He assassinated four US citizens,  one under the age of 18.  I’m surprised there are not more trees named after him.  Grab your shovels, kitchen compost and worm castings!!!!!  Who’s ready to do a little gardening?”

The crowd cheers unanimously, “Let’s garden!!!!”.

Later that afternoon the Cambrian citizens look lovingly at the new President Obama avocado tree.  The avocado tree was chosen in honor of Michelle Obama’s commitment to healthy living through food.

The Cambrian Obama Avocado Tree does not bring in as many tourists as the General Sherman or help children develop climbing skills and nurture their imagination like a tank does.  However, all the harvested avocados are donated to families in the Head Start program.

 

Naturally Ridiculous but Humanly TRUE

I don’t like the sound of birds singing over head
I like sky scrapers that block out the sun
I don’t like green belts and smiling families

I don’t like art that looks hand made
I like music that’s sexy and young
I don’t like happiness when it’s free

I don’t like meat that looks like animals
I like fruit that comes in an easy to open can
I don’t like Saturday markets that take up parking

I don’t like rivers that possibly will flood my house
I like nature locked up in a cage
I don’t like trees that make me sneeze and blow my nose

The Rest Home

It’s sad when your heart’s broken
and you can’t say goodbye.
It’s sad when the only thing the doctor
will let you do
is cry.

It’s sad when the state laws
finally say okay
and now you’re too exhausted
to wear a smile
to say goodbye.