Sunday Squibs

 

Writing is a strip tease upon a barren stage

Where even the youngest fear showing their age

I swear there is a demon 

Who waits the ‘Net to tend

He uncorrects my spelling

As soon as I hit Send

The point when a dish seems ruined is just part of the process for a top chef. 

I’m new at this game

I’m not very skilled

It’s my first rodeo

I think I’ll be killed

Every small town in America has a sports bar. 

Why are there no fashion bars where couture contests play on a dozen big screens? 

Muted of course. 

The river of life runs always downstream 

I sit back —relax. It feels like a dream

But then at the falls I get badly addled

With the current against me I must madly paddle

We often curse our God

-That won’t make us die

Our god’s a tin roof

The Lord is the sky

If you’re carrying too much

And don’t have time to stop

Make sure what you don’t care about 

Is on your pile’s tip top. 

At the exit to the airport security zone there should be a stand selling toothpaste, jackknives, and other stuff collected by TSA.  

When I think I am great 

And not such an ass

I bang into a plate 

Of see-through sheet glass