The Imagination has its Feet in a Cement Block

The imagination has its feet in a cement block
And is trying to break free of the head
But keeps sinking down into the sea of the unconscious
where it gets shoved around by opioid-drugged pufferfish.
“Owch!” it bounces off one. “Owch!” it bounces off another
The pufferfish drift by unscathed
“Can anyone help me get my feet out of this cement block?” the imagination asks--
its plea a gush of impotent bubbles.

Fertility and the Dove

“Fewer than half of university students were able to correctly identify the age at which a woman’s fertility declines,” said the dove.


Fertility sat polishing her fingernails.


“and only one in five knew male fertility declines at 45,” the dove went on.


Fertility blew on her nails to make them dry.


“a third of men and women thought female fertility starts to decline only at 40,” the dove continued, its voice rising to a shriek.


Fertility carefully gathered up her chromosomes, her eggs, her intracytoplasmic sperm injection, her polish, nail file, and acetone-soaked cotton balls into her purse.


“Kiss my ass,” she told the dove, and walked out the door 


(stumbling/her panties around her ankles).

Wary Healthy

I’m fit as a fiddle

I’m right as rain

You’ll never see me sick again

I’m back on my feet

With a clean bill of health

I’m hale and hearty

And health is wealth

With a new lease on life

I’m completely recharged

No swelling, no coughing

No organs enlarged

I’m in the pink

And I’m full of beans

I’m in good shape

And I’ve got good genes

I seek those who are

Fit, flushed, and full-blooded too

And you have a cold

So I bid you adieu.