Friday, April 26, 2013

Tonight

Tonight, if I were called upon to die
I would not panic, nor tell God to tell me why,  
only sit silent, cross-legged, calm-hearted,  
‘til I met my new countrymen, the dearly departed.  
My soul would rise to Heaven, I hope, and rest eternally.  
You’d all stay bound to Earth, until you flew to me.  

I have no affairs to settle, nothing I need to complete.
The pantry is full; there’s enough food for my family to eat.

Except, I'll say I love you, and please do not fight 
over the few stupid things I left behind.  Now it is night.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Much Trouble in Australia

And yesterday I was in Australia,
thanks to my newly-honed powers of astral projection,
and I saw the boomerangs and the crocodiles
and everything. Tasmanian devils, tree frogs,
momma kangaroos with baby kangaroos.  
I saw the cannibals, too:
short dark men wearing loincloths
and necklaces made of teeth
dancing in the nighttime, dancing with fire, 
calling up the spirits of their dead heroes,
opening a portal with their chants. 
And I, an idle tourist of the spirit world,
came through the portal, and spent the night
floating above them, at a distance of ten feet,
undetected, and softly breathing.

There is much trouble.  
There is much trouble in Australia. 

Saturday, April 13, 2013

Poem Written Upon the Reflection of the Near Completion of Today's Tasks

Today I nearly dug a half-dug hole, 
a place to place a giant water tank, 
a tank which is dirty, which needs to be cleaned. 
I sniffed it; it stank.

I started scrubbing it with a sponge tied to a pole.
See, it's got this opening in the top, and... uh...
Honest, I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed 
the putrid innards of the inwardly putrid tank
and it was kind of working, but... uh...
the putridity of the putridness was really icky,
so now the tank is empty.

If only I had a pressure washer 
and/or three illegal immigrants
then certainly I would have finished,
or nearly finished, or made the project
less less-than-finished... almost-finished-er

The tank will be for the Apocalypse!!!
Blood, fire, people acting like badgers,
Pandemonium coming as a thief in the night,
and my kitchen faucet won't work, 
and neither will the garden hose,
so what will Scruffy drink?  (Scruffy's my dog)
And everyone who doesn't have water stored
like I soon will, in my tank, will die die die die die!!!

But me, my wife, my children, Scruffy,
and anybody else I think is cool,
will have water- nice, clean water-
right there in that tank placed 
in that hole I almost finished digging,

And I gotta finish digging that hole.
And I'm gonna put the tank in the hole.
But it won't go all the way in the hole,
it'll just go a little bit in the hole.  
That's my plan.

I didn't finish my painting, either.
It's gonna be a painting of flowers, in the tradition
of the classical flower paintings of the Classical 
Flowerical Period, in which painters heavily 
influenced by flowers paint flowers that take on
a classical, flowery look.  Think smeared petroleum jelly. 
Right now I'm still on the first stem.

Or I might just paint psychedelic blobs.  Pink.  
Or orange, if the lid on the pink paint is still stuck.

It's going to be intense!
If you want an idea of what my painting will look like,
picture looking deeply -even metaphysically!- 
into a kaleidoscope, except... you're a pirate!
So you have an eye-patch, and your shoulder parrot
keeps squawking squawking squawking in your ear, 
and your ear is connected to your brain,
thus your vision is subliminally bird-ish,
that is to say, your vision -subliminally- becomes a vision 
pertaining to the vision of a bird.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

How I feel about every issue

Dear Readers,

In case you care, here's how I feel about everything:

Gun control: Bang!  Bang!  Bang!  Get away from my guns!  Bang! Bang!  Bang!

Abortion: Murder.  Sinful.

Gay marriage: No, that's bad.  Don't do it.  "Demonic in origin" to quote the Pope. 

Myself: Yes, I'm sinful too.  Look, I don't throw literal stones, like the Scribes and Pharisees, only digital ones.

My neighbors: Pleasant.  Cordial.

President Obama:  Bad.  Bad.  Destructively Progressive. 

Secession:  Hey let's not get crazy.

Love: Great!

Religion: Great!  Especially mine!  (Mormon)  But the Pope is good too!

Taxes: Lower them.  Especially for the rich people who employ everybody.

Social Security:  Socially insecure.  Privatize it! 

Education: Bust the teachers' unions.  More School Choice= More Better People and schools for them too like me look! I learned in public schools and this sentence is not too good sorry but if you give me private school education than writing and smarts for all gets better.  And put Jesus back in school.

Texas: Yee-haw!

California:  Love the beaches.  Hate the politics.

Immigration:  Simplify legal immigration.  Bring in computer whizzes.  Keep moochers and the riff raff out.

The Weather:  Beautiful! 

Racial problems: Ignore race and it will go away.

Global Warming: Fake.

The Shroud of Turin:  Real.



Sincerely,
Telemoonfa

My Dream Vacation

Dear Readers,

I would fly to California, to Los Angeles. I'd stay there for a week.

I would take a taxi to a motel room by the beach.  Not too nice of a motel.  I couldn't get comfortable if it was too nice.  But I don't want a trashy place, either.  As soon as I got there, I'd take a nap, if I was sleepy.

I would go to the beach every day with an ice chest full of food and water.  The ice chest would have wheels on it, so I could roll it down the sidewalk.  I'd get some bagels and cream cheese at a grocery store.  And I would take the usual beach stuff, like sunglasses and a towel and sunblock.  Maybe a folding chair and a giant umbrella. 

I would wear flip-flops and swim trunks.  Maybe a T-shirt. 

And I wouldn't do anything, really, once I got to the beach.  I'd just lay there and nap.  I would bury my feet in the sand.  And I would spend a little bit of time laying next to the water, so the waves would tumble over me.  If I got the energy, I would walk around and look for sea shells, or I would wade in the water.  I would watch the waves come and go for a long time.  I wouldn't exercise.  I would swim maybe just a little, but I wouldn't exert myself.

I would eat out every night.  I'd find a good restaurant with food that I like, -hamburgers and spaghetti with meatballs- nothing too adventurous.  This vacation wouldn't be about discovering new things that I like.  It would be about doing the things I already know I like, only doing them longer, and more deliberately. 

I would eat some sea food at a restaurant that gets its stuff straight out of the ocean and serves it on the same day its caught.  Maybe I'd try lobster.  I've never had lobster before.

And I'd be rich.  I'd have so much money that I could just try whatever food sounded good.  I could order something strange from the menu, take a bite, and if I didn't like it, well, I'd just go to another restaurant.  I'd still leave a big tip. 

And I'd eat stuff from food trucks.  Burritos, tacos, gyros, hot dogs, Asian food- whatever. 

If it rained, that would be fine.  I would stay inside my motel room while it rained.  And the motel would have a covered patio with a hammock, so I could swing in the hammock while it rained.

I wouldn't get on the Internet, or make or receive any phone calls.  I would not read the newspaper or watch any TV.

Nothing would be scheduled.  In fact, I wouldn't even know what time it was.  I would just guess by the position of the sun.  I would not go to any theme parks, go on any historical tours, or see any movies.  I wouldn't even see a play.  Seeing a play would most likely require me to follow plots, learn character names, and try to figure out what the theme of the play is.  I don't want to think about themes. 

But I would go to a concert. Lots of concerts, in fact, probably every night, if I wasn't too tired.  I'd go to an instrumental jazz concert, for sure.  The concert wouldn't be too loud, and it wouldn't be in a really crowded room.  Maybe I'd find a restaurant that had different jazz artists playing every night.  I'd see some old man playing the trombone, with his cheeks puffed out, and the next night I'd see a woman in a black dress, a microphone at her lips.  And I'd go there every night, and every night I would melt in my chair listening to heavenly jazz, and I'd just keep eating steak and mushrooms and sourdough rolls. I'd drink fresh-squeezed lemonade.

Beach all day, jazz all night, sprinkled with naps in between.  That's my dream vacation.

Sincerely,
Telemoonfa.