A Day in the Life of an Orphanage Director

The orphans are hungry, the weeds should be picked

The clock on the wall ticks its third-to-last tick

I can’t find my suitcase, my pitbull is ill

It's cloudy and damp and the air has a chill

I’m nervous; I chew on my lips ‘til they’re bleeding

The orphans are pounding, demanding their feeding

The office is locked, but quite soon they’ll break through

They shout, “Give us our crackers and hot carrot stew!”

“Pick the weeds and eat those!” I say. “I’m too upset

To feed orphans. So the weeds’ all’s the dinner you’ll get!”

But the orphans break in, and one carries a brick

The clock on the wall ticks its third-to-last tick

He beats in my brains and he leaves me for dead

My sick pitbull whines, licks the blood from my head

They break into the pantry, steal chocolates and fruits

They break into my closet, try on my best suits

“Call the doctor!” I gasp to one orphan—quite young

Who stands still, watching Spark lick my wounds with his tongue

“I will call,” says the child. “Please don’t die.” (I feel flattered).

The ambulance comes and the orphan boys scattered

I'm taken to hospital, into E.R.

I wake up two hours later; my scalp has a scar

And my hospital gown has a pattern of stripes

At the window, the orphans shake long metal pipes,

And they’re chanting, “You bastard! You give us our stew!”

And I’m sweating, lip-biting, don’t know what to do

So I think of the weeds that have grown in the grass

But the orphans break in, they have smashed through the glass

They’re about to attack, when ol’ Sparky appears

And he’s snarling so vicious it vibrates his ears

With his razor sharp teeth he bites ankles and shins

The orphans, scared shitless, leap out of their skins

They escape through the window, and never come back

And Sparky curls up, warm and proud, on my lap

“Oh, sweet Spark, you got better!” I say, “You’re not sick!”
And the clock on the wall ticks its third-to-last tick.

i want to capture strange tendernesses with you

i want to capture strange tendernesses with you and put them in cardboard boxes with homemade mazes like rats

we’ll need a stopwatch.

one strange tenderness has a diet of lemonade

one strange tenderness has a diet of oatmeal and small rocks

one strange tenderness we cuddle in our hands every morning while the sun comes up

does this last one run slower

delirious with the memory of its sunrise love?

a good scientist treats his hypothesis

like a walrus treats his baguette

"what's it gonna do next?" he asks

(it's just a fancy word
for long bread).

I'm A Cross-Dressing Spider

I'm a cross-dressing spider
And flies are my meals
But it's hard to catch flies
In my bra and high heels.

Lifeguards Are Sometimes Jerks

I went to the beach to go swim in the sea

“You can’t swim,” said the lifeguard. “You don’t have a key.”

“There’s no key to the sea!” I responded with rage

But that second he pushed me inside of a cage.

“If you’re clever enough,” he said then, “to get free

Then you’re too smart to drown, and that’s less work for me.”

“Are you kidding?” I said. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Nope, not really,” he said, and he sipped on his Coke.

Well, I’d come there with nothing, except for my clothes

What was I s’posed to do? Pick the lock with my toes?

“Come on, lifeguard!” I said. “Why ya doin’ this crap?”

“Cause I dig it,” he told me. “Now shut ya damn trap.”

So I waited all day in that stupid locked cage

With my skin turning pink from both sunburn and rage

And when night fell I said, “Man, I’ve had it! No more!”

And the lifeguard said, “Fine, dude. But first, sweep the floor.”

“Oh, now I’m your slave?” I said. “Isn’t that grand!”

But I looked then and saw: I was standing on sand.

Anthropo-Floral Romance

If I only had the power, I would turn into a flower

Fuse my legs into a stem and make ‘em green
The stem will have stomata, or at least I think it oughta

And my leaves will have a healthy, waxy sheen.

After that, I will be aimin’ to turn torso into stamen

Eyes and mouth and ears to petals, one by one

I’ll make pollen with my anthers; I’ll have seeds as black as panthers

And my petals will be yellow when I’m done.

Then you’ll come along and pick me, take me home and gently stick me

In a vase I know you keep in your boudoir

You’ll gaze serenely at my beauty, smell my fragrance (slightly fruity)

And admire how I’m golden like a star.

Then at night I’ll watch you sleeping, and I’ll silently be weeping

‘Cause I’ll never sleep with you, no not with you

But you won’t detect my mourning upon waking in the morning

‘Cause you’ll see my tears and think they’re only dew.

You will give me water daily, and you’ll play your ukulele

For me, having read that music’s good for plants

Then you’ll sit and do your quilting, and I’ll watch you, slowly wilting

Petals shrink, detach and fall—a morbid dance.

After days of petal shedding (which is like a slow beheading)

You will think that I look bare and past my prime

So you’ll throw me in the bin, and shut the lid (a clash of tin)

And that’s the end…but we were lovers, for a time.

The Born Horn

Long ago, the whole world had a Born Horn

With a trumpet-blast loud as a bomb

It sounded whenever a baby

Came slip-sliding out of its mom.

But soon there were more and more babies

And the Born Horn went off every hour

It disturbed people sleeping or working

Or cooking or taking a shower.

So the people cried: “Ban the damn Born Horn!”

But the Born Hornsman said: “People, please!

Does the thought of a soul sliding into the world

Not quiver the caps of your knees?

Is it too much to ask just to pause for a sec

When new eyes and new noses arrive?

Does each horn blast not mean: ‘Hallelujah!

A dear sibling, at last, is alive!’?

For aren’t we all brothers and sisters?

Is each human not one of our own?

Don’t you picture each babe when the Born Horn goes off?

Don’t you think to it: ‘child, welcome home’?”

“No, we don’t and we won’t!” cried the people

“'Cause the Born Horn goes off all the time!

It’s obnoxious and pointless, and from this day on

Born Horn ringing’s considered a crime!”

So the Born Hornsman packed up his Born Horn

And the babies kept sliding on in

With nobody paying attention

Except for their nearest of kin.

“Well, I can’t have my horn,” thought the Hornsman

“But perhaps I could buy a small chime.”

So he did, and he rang it when babies were born

And thought: "child, welcome home" every time.

A Mirror-Mind's Lament

It’s becoming ever clearer

That I’m actually a mirror

And when I am introspecting

I am really just reflecting

‘Cause there’s nothing on the outside

That’s not also on the inner

‘Cause both in and out are Empty

And it’s Emptiness for dinner!

But a mirror’s just as Empty

As the Empty space it’s seeing

So it can’t be me that’s Empty

Unless Emptiness is Being

Oh it’s strange to be so empty!

What a state of disaffection!

For a mirror feels so useless

When it’s void of a reflection

It can just reflect the things that are

What else can it expect?

But soon it learns that ‘things’

Are just what human minds project

And when a human mind’s a mirror

(Like mine is, as I have said)

Naught’s projected, naught is seen

And so I might as well be dead!

But is there stuff to see in afterlife?

And is there stuff to do?

Or in afterlife, do mirrors gain projecting powers too?

Oh, I envy all you minds

Who can project a world of forms...

And see the trees and rivers

And the sun and clouds and storms

 ‘Cause when mind is just a mirror

With an empty out and inner

Then it can't have steak or French fries
No, it's Emptiness for dinner

And your steak (though it’s projected)

Is your steak, and never mine

And I cannot even see it

But my god, it smells divine.