Fresh and in the Can

Sometimes I just know
a poem's about to drop.
It's a feeling not unlike
the feeling I get
when my bowels are about
to move -- a bottoming out
type of sensation
that tells me
I better find
a piece of paper
(or a toilet) fast
because something's
about to plop out.
Sometimes I get that
nervous panicky feeling
when it's "time"
and I can't seem
to find any paper
(or a toilet).
My breathing gets shallow,
my armpits begin to sweat
and my mouth gets dry.

Ever notice that a
delayed delivery
results in nothing but
a constipated effort later?
The more it's postponed,
the more plugged up it gets.
It's better to let nature
take its course
while the urge is fresh.
Things move a lot

more freely that way.

Fortunately, more
times than not,
I find what I need
just in time
to avoid a blockage.

The Reason I Write Poetry

I notice things --
everything.

Then I get

lost in thought

about them --

why they're done,

how often

and by whom --

sometimes

at the most

inopportune times --

during a meeting

with a co-worker,

my tax advisor

or the dentist.

And then I feel

the need to

capture my thoughts

on paper --

so I won't forget them.

And, on most days,

I have just enough

arrogance

to share what I've

put into writing

with someone else,

perhaps to validate

that I'm, in fact, alive.

(As she entered the)

As she entered the

ladies' restroom, I whispered,

"I didn't do it."

The Mayan Mocha

Like Pop Rocks --
starts out sweet
and explodes in your mouth

Baptismal Brew

I've been told
that I behave like
Satan's handmaiden
before I have my
morning coffee.
My emotions
do a demon drop,
my fingertips
begin to itch
and my head spins around
like the bride of Chucky.
After the first few sips
of the redemptive brew,
I am baptized
into new life
or, at least,
a new day.

Cryptic Residents

On bad days,
apartment living
can feel like life
in a mausoleum.
Sandwiched in between
crumby people,
you're stuck in a
slot above and
below folks that
you don't know.
Some days stink
more than others.
Some days you have
grave concerns
about your neighbors.
Other days, you're
dead wrong about them.
Every so often you
may be scared stiff.
Occasionally, you can
rest in peace,
knowing that
the days will pass
without too much
heartache.

Tough Stuff

I know life is hard
and that things can be
particularly rough
in the bathroom.
But do you really need
to vocally testify
to your difficulty
in the office restroom?
There is such a thing
as quiet desperation.
I wish for you a
silent elimination,
and for myself,
emancipation
from your proclamation.

(hearing the big blast)

hearing the big blast,
grateful I exited the
ladies room intact

(trailing the attorney)

trailing the attorney
choking on the perfume
I wore in high school

(IT programmer)

IT programmer
digging for major boogers

in his cubicle

Seasonal Criminals

There's something about
summertime sandals --

they're too much

to handle

when it comes to

the stench that

sweaty feet and

leather create.

My nostrils don't

celebrate or salivate about

the smell that emanates

from the partnership

that perpetrates

heinous crimes
against olfactory.

Dreamboats That Pass in the Night

Last night I dreamt
that you were into me.
Out of the blue,
you knew what to do
to influence me.
Truth is, we're married
to other people
and I've never thought
of you like that before.
Somehow last night's dream
opened up some subconscious door.
This morning I saw you
at your desk and felt
a strange connection.
It'll pass in a few days,
just like the indignation
and exasperation
I felt toward the
co-worker I once dreamt
cheated on his wife
with my little sister.