write something small every day

I’m attempting a new daily series:

write something small everyday – no matter if it’s the worst words ever typed/written.

Here is today’s entry:

The crack in the concrete block wall, barely let in any sunshine. When I bent down and squinted to look outside I couldn’t make out any details. Frankly, I’m not sure I wanted to, due to the rumors of mechanicals taking over.

(personal note: could you switch out the Covid-19 for robots/drones “The Mechanicals”? – ahh the fun of free writing)

when you thought you had more ketchup

Warning: this poem has crude humor.

-realizing you’re out of ketchup when you thought you had more

trying to write a poem
when nothing comes to
mind reminds me
when you’re looking
forward to eating
ketchup like on your fries
only to find
that the ketchup
is low in the bottle
like low tide
when you wanted
high tide
when you were up
at five a.m. fishing with your uncles
so you slam
the bottle down
hard on a hard
hoping to force
whatever is left
to fill in the spout
but you open the cap
and squeeze and
all you end up with
is a ketchup
diarrhea fart
spraying it everywhere
on your clothes
plate and counter
and that is when
you think you should
have just quit
and eaten it

the little i worked on yesterday 5-20-20 wednesday

-how do i sleep

whenever i stay overnight
at a relative’s house
the next morning
they always ask
how did you sleep last night

on my right side
with my right hand wedged
under my right eye
like a golfer’s number five
lifting my eye from
sinking into the sand
of four pillows
protecting me from
my own stomach acid (<—- i think i might end it here)

(potentially more length by adding this)

feeling bony thin
adjusting the missing
body fat of one-hundred five pounds
that padded my knees from rubbing
tossing me back and forth

my poetry writing process

-playground equipment of the mid 1970’s

i’m not sure why the
merry-go-round was so fun
perhaps it was the closest
thing to getting drunk
when we were still to young

then there was the seesaw
when you were high in the sky
looking down on your friend below
he thought it was fun
when he hopped off and
let you go

the metal slide with the
only caution sign:
beware surface may be hot
ignored by the thrill of sliding down
made me feel i won the jackpot

monkey bars i avoided
i was overweight never could stay on
made me feel like
a complete and utter moron

the swings is where i soared
to escape everything below
waiting for the apex
before my backward flow

the scariest of all spread out
like a giant robotic spider
was the jungle gym
who i admired
anyone brave enough
to climb to the top
and sometimes after school
when no one was around
i would climb the first rung
and then back down

it wasn’t worth being a hurt hero

what i wrote today thursday 5-14-20

so i don’t get out much
i just discovered Billy Collins
he is now my favorite poet
i want to read all of his works
i love his common everyday
rich imagery
i hope i can learn from him
write about a cockroach
that is barely alive
just enough
to barely crawl
from the water cooler
to the living room floor
and that’s when
i ended
his travels
and then didn’t
want to pick him up
so i took my fly swatter and
szhooshed him
under the dresser
i didn’t want to pick him
up and feel his crushed
brittle body

Where would I’d rather be?

living in a tiny house
simply: one big T.V.
siting in a heated swivel recliner
besides my wife
in the evening


swiveling in a heated recliner
besides my wife
watching our big screen T.V.
with nothing much else

book cases containing eighty percent less
books that we never have read

I wake up early
and yet there are lots of other
people who wake up
a lot earlier than i do

and i’m tired
and throughout the day
my tiredness becomes exhausted
until the afternoon
where i’m hung over
due to lack of sleep
like a giraffes neck
hanging low drinking

lacking all grace of a
girrafe’s neck hung low
curved as a arrow set on a bow

i’m reading a poem
about sking down
drawing random
lines in snow

and i got to think
it reminds me of a
Brice Marden
abstract line painting

if i would ever need
to describe skiing
down a snow banked hill
like an abstract Marden
stick painting

there is something
about drinking water
from my double-walled
vacuumed sealed bottle
with my lips
hanging on the
clean stainless steel rim
instead of sucking it out of the
thick straw plastic spout

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