Clocked out at 2000. I’m off tomorrow, and then begins… THE WEEK FROM HELL.
Hey, the Navy Seals don’t have a monopoly on that term. So let’s try that again.
Blah blah blah blah and then begins… THE WEEK FROM HELL.
Thank you, much better.
Before I had this job, I was going to volunteer at a soup kitchen on Thanksgiving. Now, it is designated a “Peak Day” or something like that and if you try to skip it, they hunt you down and drag you to work. I think there might be some branding involved as well.
Truth is, my daughter will be with her dad, and so I don’t mind the chance to earn double money. Of course, I would be okay with a marathon day of online gaming too, but since we are building up a nest egg to move into a new apartment some time in the Spring…
I might even be able to write a poem or two during that time. I have a notebook I keep in my locker that I scribble ideas into. Then I sit in my car and write poems on my breaks.
So much healthier, for body and soul and wallet, then taking up smoking again.
Which reminds me, I recently watched an AmazonPrime movie called Paterson starring a very low-key Adam Driver as a bus driver who writes poetry on his lunch break.
It’s slow and offbeat and light as air, but then again, it’s Jim Jarmusch. He runs on a different plane than the rest of the world.
As I watched it, I thought: if I can be included in a group with Paterson and Jarmusch, then I know I can consider myself an artist. Regardless of what my day job is.
So, here we go. After two poems that were sweet and non-sexual, I give you a raunchy one that pairs well with mouth.
Because it’s Friday. And because I can. And because why not.
I read a bold theory once which proposed
human hands evolved so they could be closed.
fingers wrapped into fists with which to punch
whoever stole your girl or swiped your lunch.
the male jaw responded with added weight,
wider angles to make it firm and straight.
no doubt female sexual selection
chose a strong hand and a strong erection.
comparing what holds to that which is held
shows us just how our species has excelled:
by foolishly, always pushing our luck,
we have made mates whom we’re compelled to fuck.