do not bend, part 3

So here we are.

I remember a segment of some afternoon talk show from many years ago... it was probably Oprah, or maybe Ellen... where a hidden camera experiment revealed just how much people crave free things, no matter what those free things are. A bowl of rocks - plain, ordinary rocks - were placed in a bowl marked “FREE” and displayed on a sidewalk table. And every person who passed by that bowl grabbed a rock. Some grabbed several. Again, the rocks were not special, unique, or even pretty. They were just rocks. But they were free. And even if those people didn’t really want or need rocks, they grabbed anyway. That’s the power of “free.”

It would seem that I am a rock. (But not in the good way.)

my gift

So here we are.

In our first Christmas together, back at the turn of the decade in 2010, I gave you a little poem:

holiday warning

If your meat’s in a mound

And your french fries are drowned

And your chocolate fudge sundaes

Are whipped cream crowned

Then it shouldn’t astound

If you gain a pound

And a pound and a pound

Until you are round

Last year, I gave you an external YouTube link to the timeless Jack Benny Program’s Christmas shopping episode, but it has since been removed. I’m sorry about that. 

This year, I am giving you a true story about a Christmas gift I once gave, exactly seven years ago today. Enjoy...

end of days

So here we are.

I figured I’d better get a post in before the world is supposed to end on the 21st. I personally don’t buy into doomsday predictions, but one never knows. (The Pope is on Twitter, after all...)

filmy

So here we are.

One of my favorite movies is Broadcast News, written and directed by James L. Brooks. There are so many things to love about it: the actors, the oh-so-quotable dialogue, the moments (with and without Joan Cusack, in the meat of her scene-stealing moments era), the unconventional ending, and all of the truisms, especially in this scene, where Bill (William Hurt) is chatting with Jane (Holly Hunter) at a party:

Bill: That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you dressed like this. You look so clean and pretty.

Jane: What do you mean? ... Clean?

Bill: Well, at the office you always have this sort of film over you.

mid-life

So here we are.

As I turn 41 today, it all starts to make sense: I am currently having a mid-life crisis. 

There is no other reason for my behavior. I’m not talking about the fist-shaking. That’s just my cynical nougat center whose flavor has deepened and intensified with time. And while lately I have looked at every young person under the age of 25 and thought, sigh... you have your whole life ahead of you, that’s not a mid-life crisis. That’s just the truth.

cutting-room floor

So here we are.

Whenever you’re writing poor poems for something you made up called Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (or HoLoPoPoMo), you’re bound to come up with some haikus that don’t make the cut. (I know what you’re thinking: wait, HoLoPoPoMo has standards?)

What to do with these dregs? Let them fester in your hard drive? Let them rot in the cloud? Throw them out completely?

Not here, you don’t. 

holopopomo day 30: what holopopomo has taught us

So here we are.

Today marks the end of Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo), and the experience can best be summed up with this haiku:

holopopomo

not a success, nor failure

it just existed

But that can’t possibly be our last HoLoPoPoMo entry. No, here ‘tis:

what holopopomo has taught us

We always knew that “orange” is hard to rhyme

That’s nothing new -- we hear it all the time

Another tricky word to rhyme is “sugar”

But even then, the crude can still use “booger”

So -- fine -- avoiding certain words and themes

It got so I was rhyming in my dreams

Until one day I longed to write of films

And that’s the moment when I realized -- -- -- crap.

The end.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this November adventure. Back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.

holopopomo day 29: lament

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry is from the point of view of a 16 year-old girl:

lament

by tiffani

high school ennui

strangling, suffocatingly 

aching, yearning to be free

no one can hear, no one can see

the pain, the depth, the gravity

so sick of popularity

bored with necking until three

the football game, the pep rally

i’m back-to-back homecoming quee’

my peachy face without acne

i want to run, i want to flee

so tired of my cup size, C

and being oh so bosomy

my tummy flat and hips fat free

my steady boyfriend timothy

my shiny hair, brushed tediously

it’s always soft and feathery

my texts all start with omg 

i smile emoticonally

my perfect nose, sans surgery

and lips that taste like strawberry

this monster i have come to be

oh god! why me? why me? why me?

The end.

I wrote the first draft of this about ten years ago, long before this web...blah...blog was even a glimmer in my eye... but it has stayed buried in my hard drive since then, because there aren’t many places where can one publish a bad poem that’s supposedly written by someone fictional. Ah, self-publishing... where would legitimately odd crap be without you? 

Yes indeed. Welcome to me. 

holopopomo day 28: holiday party

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry is a little early reminder of all the fun that is to come next month:

holiday party

hello cookie, hello chip

hello seven-layer dip

hello punch bowl, hello brie

hello nothing sugar-free

hello egg nog, hello steaks

hello tiny cuppy-cakes

hello cocoa, hello pie

hello mini hams-on-rye

hello sturgeon, hello lox

hello bourbon on the rocks

hello bonbons sent from France

hello yummy, goodbye pants

The end.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.

holopopomo day 27: adieu

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry:

adieu

So long, boo

What will you do

Now that we’re through

On that please chew

And tell me true

For me, it’s “whew”

Flushed down the loo

Without a mew

I’ll start anew

I shall not rue

Or down a few

Unless you sue

Well, that’s my cue

So tootle-oo 

Goodbye to you

The end.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.

holopopomo day 26: fake it

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry:

fake it

a zircon, when it’s chiseled right

shines like a diamond in the light

so carry on, you not-a-jewel

for folks are such a cinch to fool

The end.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me. 

holopopomo day 25: two hundred

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry celebrates web...blah...log’s 200th post:

two hundred

Two hundred things can be a lot

Except, of course, when they are not

Two hundred cents is just two bucks

Two hundred drakes means lots of ducks

Two hundred crumbs won’t make a loaf

Two hundred I.Q., not an oaf

Two hundred seconds is but a flash

Two hundred hams makes quite a hash

Two hundred point is one huge font

Two hundred pounds is hardly gaunt

Two hundred years is history

Two hundred dollars, far from free

Two hundred beaus, oh you coquette

Two hundred pages, mere novelette

Two hundred miles, you’ve traveled far

Two hundred swings is over par

Two hundred hairs, you’re nearly bald

Two hundred texts, you’ve barely called

Two hundred nuts will fill a bowl

Two hundred calories in one roll

Two hundred dogs will pack the pound

Two hundred beans is one small mound

Two hundred posts from this mind of mine

Is just one plus one-ninety-nine

Two hundred things is quite a lot

Except, of course, when they are not

The end.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me. 

holopopomo day 24: the lobster

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry:

the lobster

to the lobster in the tank

who is trying to get free

you are just beyond my glance

but i crane my neck to see

i am watching you climb up

on the backs of all your friends

and i don’t know what you think

how you hope this effort ends

all at once i feel a chill

and i don’t know what to do

am i also in a trap

is my battle futile too

then again, i realize that

unlike fish awaiting fate

i at least can sit and eat

this spaghetti on my plate

The end.

By the way, this one is a true story... right down to the spaghetti.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me. 

holopopomo day 23: black friday

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry is an utterly uninspired attempt to take on a sad stereotype in the most tired, well-trod way:

black friday

Oh what fun it is to shop

In hours small and wee

Oh what fun it is to stop

And take a break to pee

Oh what fun it is to find 

The store is out of stock

Oh what fun it is to blind

Yourself with sticker shock

Oh what fun it is to eat

A Clif Bar on the run

And when I say “what fun it is”

Not once do I mean fun

The end.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.

holopopomo day 22: thanksgiving grace

So here we are. 

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry celebrates the spirit of this day:

thanksgiving grace

We give thanks for everything

Birds we eat and birds that sing

But today, however, I

Am most grateful for the pie

I should prob’ly qualify

The remark about the pie

If it’s fresh and a la mode

Then I stand by my thankful ode

And as long as I’m correcting

Things to which I’m genuflecting

I appreciate a lot...

But everything I’ve got?

Like those who wreck and rot?

...well, maybe not

The end. 

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.

holopopomo day 21: flame-broiled ballad

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry is my attempt at a long (but not exactly epic), 19-stanza ballad:

flame-broiled ballad

‘Twas a cold and lonely Sunday 

Just mere hours from being Monday

In that un-renovated Burger King on the hill

At the drive-thru window stood

A broken woman, who soon would

Experience a shift that haunts her still

Her name was Jean Marie

She stood all of 5-foot-three

In sturdy shoes with comfy rubber soles

Her hair was tied up in a net

With a face that few forget

But her destiny was toasting sandwich rolls

Life can throw a curve

To bring us fates we don’t deserve

Or force us to choke down a bitter pill

So was the case with Jean

With her crises unforeseen

That brought her to that Burger King on the hill

But nonetheless she was

Doing what a mother does

When she has to bring home bacon to the nest

Though it pained her soul inside

She could not afford her pride

And worked the franchise known as second-best

Back to that fateful night

And to our heroine so slight

Keeping watchful eyes upon her skeleton crew

It was only her and Ron

Everybody else had gone

Oh, and Jennifer, though Jennifer was new

The van cut through the dark

Cashier Ronnie saw it park

His face grew pale when he saw them emerge

The high school football squad

Muddied up with late-game sod

Required a meaty, salty, failure-purge

At the same time, Jean Marie

Spied a silver SUV

Through the hidden camera at the drive-thru box

A crackling voice was heard

Before Jean could say a word

‘Twas the twelve cheerleaders for those Fighting Hawks

The dreaded moment came

“Special orders” was its name

Our Jean and Jen and Ron all felt a chill

There’d never been a rush

Or an unexpected crush

In that un-renovated Burger King on the hill

Our Jean Marie was flooded

Teenage girls can be hot-blooded

And none of them want mayo on their buns

For Ron, it was insane

Orders hit him like a train

And worse than that, he soon ran out of ones

But Jennifer, poor Jen

Was just a trainee then

And she barely knew the secrets of the grill

She’d worked for a pizzeria

Was harassed and thus said, “see ya”

This was how she’d come to BK on the hill

Twenty burgers, thirty fries

Chicken tenders, cherry pies

And for unknown reasons, milkshakes mixed with tea

No two sandwiches the same

Orders Jen just could not tame

All she could do was call out, “Jean Marie!”

‘Twas a quandary for Jean

For her hands were far from clean

Handling dirty dollar bills since 2 or 3

Without much time to think

She ran to the back room sink

Leaving cheerleaders to wonder why she’d flee

The prep counter was a mess

Jennifer would soon confess

That she had not watched the training films at all

Jean Marie fired up the fryer

With this situation dire

While Jennifer curled up into a ball

Jean Marie could feel the eyes

Of the football playing guys

Watch her slap together burgers in a blur

She threw fries into a cup

Barked at Ronnie, “order up!”

And no one in the world wished they were her

She slathered and she fried

She assembled and she cried

Her tears providing extra added salt

Though she soothed the giant boys

By throwing in some Kids’ Meals toys

This scheduling fiasco was her fault

As she filled the final bag

And Jen wiped up with a rag

Jean Marie made sure to add in ketchup packs

The girls had barely seen

All the chaos that had been

And they blithely drove away with all their snacks

The football team was fed

Left the store and went to bed

Because it was a school night, after all

But in the wake of war

We learn what our lives are for

Jean Marie soon sought employment at the mall

So if you should ever toil

Where sandwiches are wrapped in foil

Even in a store where customers are few

Don’t nod off as you gape

At that important training tape

For the Jennifer I speak of could be you

This story that I tell

Of this night of burger hell

Is often told to brand-new trainees still

To remember Jean Marie

When she single-handedly

Filled the orders in that Burger King on the hill

The end.

This is completely fictional, by the way. The Burger King I worked at was not on a hill, nor did I work the night shift. I can only hope that the events in this poem have not actually happened. 

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.

holopopomo day 20: angel

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry is a love poem... well, make that an honest love poem:

angel

when the angels made you

when they shaped your form

when they curled your lovely locks

so downy soft and warm

when they chiseled cheekbones

poured starlight in your eyes

when they crafted you by hand

they knew you were a prize

the heavens sang, the cherubs wept

‘pon your celestial birth

but when you spoke, you idiot

they dumped you here on earth

The end.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me. 

holopopomo day 19: old trope

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry is, finally, a limerick:

old trope*

A teenager stars in a movie

She’s pretty and rich, all is groovy

Then more often than not

In some vice she’ll get caught

And play her next role out in juvie

The end.

Of course this is not universally true. But “movie” just screams to be rhymed with “juvie.”

*alternate title: afterschool special plot

Yes indeed. Welcome to me

holopopomo day 18: on the demise of hostess

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry reflects on the recent news regarding the upcoming shortage of snack cakes:

on the demise of hostess 

If kale went out of business

(And not to say it could)

If celery went bankrupt

(Though some kids wish it would)

If brussels sprouts became extinct

Or spinach bit the dust

If quinoa met its maker

If beets and bran went bust

There’d be some mourners at the wake

I don’t doubt that a bit

What brings a nation to its knees?

“No Twinkies?!? Holy shit!”

The end.

Little Debbie, the world is now yours.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.

holopopomo day 17: at the drugstore

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry:

at the drugstore

what the hell is all of this

all up and down the aisle

I simply want a crimson stick

to paint a sexy smile

I do not need a billion brands

with sixty shades apiece

I do not need a billion balms

each week a new release

I do not need a fancy name

like “faux” or “forge ahead”

or “bloom” or “bliss” or “killer’s kiss”

I just want freaking red

The end.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.

holopopomo day 16: poetic license

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry takes the opposite point of view from yesterday:

poetic license

When writing poetry, it’s widely known

Slightly iffy rhymes are not verboten

As long as there’s a similar sound

Pretentious words are all that count

You need a smattering of “thee” and “thus”

Or metaphors like “my heart is but dust”

And anyway, who cares about the rhymes

It’s the beauty of the symbolistic lines

Trees and flowers and summer days

Awakening a time or place

The birds of May, the winter’s rain

The songs of love that play again

So suck it, all you hard-line fools

I got a license... I can’t lose

The end.

I think this would be a good time to remind you all: It’s Poor Poetry Month. Poor. You get what you pay for, kids.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.

holopopomo day 15: again and a gain

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry:

again and a gain

“pain” does not rhyme with “again”

I’ve seen it in poems since I was ten

when someone chose to write about their pain

they’d rhyme it with “again” -- pronounced “a gain”

but that’s not how I learned to say “again”

perhaps the British said it different way back when

but modern American women and men

who mis-rhyme the word “again”

and whose intelligence should not wane

they are my very bane 

if I should ever wax poetic, then

I’ll use the proper rhyming for “again”

too many lyrics moan about the rain

but never utilize the word “refrain”

or “vein” or “vain” or “drain,” you silly hen

oh no, they all insist upon “again”

it couldn’t be more plain

but then, most poets are insane

so next time you go playing with your pen

remember how it sounds to say “again”

The end.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.

holopopomo day 14: regarding the breakup of the police

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Blogging Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry is written from the point of view of a 15 year-old boy in 1983:

regarding the breakup of the police

Why?

Why, oh why?

Sting and Adam and the other guy, why?

Can’t you let it lie?

Can’t you let it go?

No?

Oh.

Don’t turn on the red light

Don’t stand so close to me 

Don’t make my destiny to be the king of pain

Just do do do do and da da da

Because Duran Duran sucks.

The end.

Note: again, this is not my point of view. Granted, it was indeed a dark, dark day when The Police broke up, but I do think there is a world where people can enjoy both The Police and Duran Duran.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.

holopopomo day 13: checkout line

So here we are.

Today’s Horribly Local Poor Poetry Month (HoLoPoPoMo) entry attempts a sonnet:

checkout line

It happens sometimes, doesn’t it, my friends

The days arise when carbohydrates lure

When all willpower in your psyche ends

And cravings nag for goodies less than pure

The empty grocery cart is not for long

So it begins, the clearing of the shelf

A couple pints of ice cream isn’t wrong

Some cupcakes won’t completely wreck myself

But at the checkout line, I feel her eyes

The checkout girl is ringing up my chips

She notices the pudding and the pies

She notices my ever-growing hips

Oh, screw you, lady staring at my fudge

You’re not a saint yourself, so don’t you judge

The end.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.