Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Missing Wedge

A cheese head short

Of being a traitor in Packer land

Hiding behind the pages, the glasses, the bookshelves,

Hoping to be invisible for just a moment longer

In the land of a game that is so embedded in the soul

That anyone who is not involved 

Is a treacherous spirit, a miscreant and worse yet, a nerd.

Exile for anyone

Who does not know the details

Of the fatal call, final move, final score,

End zone dance of the sacred holy men

In green and gold with laurels upon their helmets

And padding upon their divine muscles.

Zealous preachers of Astroturf and domed arenas

Recognized by the golden foam on their heads

And draughts on their lips,

Brushing away everything else in life as insignificant,

Almost criminal, in the height of the season

That blesses the houses, 

Shuns the man, stuns the man

Who dares to stand up to the roaring crowd,

Admitting that he would rather read a book instead.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Under The Hood

Riding on fumes
Ignoring the voice inside my head
Disregarding the rattle and shake and warning lights
Ignoring Dad’s voice from beyond the grave
The world beyond the auto graveyard
The distant voice so frustrated with the whims
And carefree ideals of a young girl
Rattling and shaking
And the car rattles and I get all rattled up
Shaking in my little red boots
Shaking to the tunes
Blasting away the voice
That shines and laughs in time to the tune
Tuning up, tuning out
“What’s wrong with this one? She’s not like the others…”
Shaking and rattling and riding on the fumes
Sliding into the home base,
Coasting into the hometown station
Stationary in the place where I grew up
The voice still calling to put gas in that car
And to check the oil and the fluid levels and the tires
And to eat some ham because all Polish people eat ham
“Why don’t you eat ham?”
“What’s wrong with her?”
Filling my tank and checking my oil, I finally feel like an adult
As the muffled voice on the loudspeaker shouts
“Don’t forget to buy your ham sandwich!”

Monday, September 10, 2012

The Grind

Hating that crushed pepper
Cracked pepper, ground pepper
Burning my thumb
Burning a memory of a child
With rules to live by
Follow them, break them
Suffer the consequences
Feel the pain
Eat that black pepper
Sprinkled on your food
On your hand
Speak no evil and nothing will ever happen to you
With the bar of soap in your mouth
At the swine bar
Hogging the bar, hogging the pepper
Barring all convention
Barring all pain
And all that jazz
That sprinkles and sizzles and burns
And cries out for more spice in the sunlight
Under the shiny mess that crinkles your potatoes
Cries out for more pepper
And disciplines the frivolity
Do what is right and leave the spice to everybody else
Crunch those crackers and notes and numbers
That bends and pushes the pepper
Hot stuff, hot rush on Rush Street
Cry like a baby
Drink the pepper sauce
Crying for a new destination, new wooden ruler
Wooden spoon making the rules
Cracking the whip
Cracking the pepper
As we all crack up.