Some Music (Not a poem)

It surprises the Complete and Total Loser how much sentiment, the mawkish kind, music can bring out in him. At times it makes him fear he'll develop an attachment to soft, pink things, calendars with kittens wearing clothes, sad movies. 

The video online by the Slovenian singing group, Perpetuum Jazzile, for example. It's getting some attention because they create a rain and thunderstorm effect. But that's a poor imitation of the real thing, the Loser thinks. He likes the song. No, he likes the singers. The 70s style and pastel colors the men wear. The unabashed femininity of the women. The way the man doing the boombox looks like Seinfeld. You take one look at them and though they sing in English that passes for native you know at once they're not American but from a country where people are more often kind than not to each other (yes, I know Slovenia's history, but there are differences when considering daily interaction). 

It warms the Loser's hard, aging heart.

What’s Important (Poem)

Food, shelter, clothes, money,
Health, water, might.
Air, music, friends, honey,
Silence, safety, light.
Dirt, plants, sky above,
A better cure for gout.
Warmth, perhaps a little love,
And things to think about. 

If I Were Blind (Poem)

If I were blind I’d see no reason
To ever leave my place.
I’d stay inside most every season
And never shave my face.
On treadmill I would walk or run,
My bike a stationary.
And when my phone-work day is done
I’d spend time with my canary.
When friends invite me out to eat
I’d say, “What are you cookin’?”
Then I’d prepare the same meal myself,
And phone dine stead of lookin’.

Conservatives (Poem)

Pity us conservatives,
Have mercy on us please.
Our policies were real bad biz,
You’ve got us on our knees.
We backed the wrong horse twice,
Last time that we’ll do that!
We’ve only thrown bad dice
And we’re drinking by the vat.
So when we talk on Rush or Fox
And attack you libs and get ya
Don’t take it hard ’cause we ain’t gots
Good stuff in our agenda.

Uh-oh (Poem)

The pole is melting faster than thought
At nine percent a decade.
If warm theories you haven’t bought,
Hope you like warm Kool Aid.
Many people get riled and mad
When change is blamed on man.
You’d think that they’d instead get sad
And correct all that they can.
If scientists have erred on causes
And we’ve cleaned pollution still,
Won’t it be good to have such pauses
And exercise our will?

Plane Crash Dream (Poem)

I’m on a plane, it’s going down
Don’t know the reason why.
On my face not smile nor frown
(Why won’t the damn thing fly?)
Can’t see outside, windows are fogged
No idea when we’ll smash.
I wished more of life I’d hogged
’Fore conversion into hash.
At eight hundred feet per sec
My end will come quite fast.
I wondered if at time of wreck
Would this thought be my last?

Shock (Poem)

It’s funny what we’re shocked about
When we learn news of the day.
It matters more when headlines shout
This politician’s gay!
Norway’s horror made me sad,
Put fear inside my head.
But this lesser news was just as bad:
Amy Winehouse is now dead.

In Sympathy (Poem)

I have sorrow for the she or he
Who has to work outside,
And those who live far from the sea
And have a fatty hide.
I pity the Amish, the Hasidic Jew,
All covered up with clothes.
It’s down to ninety, ninety-two,
But them’s the nighttime lows. 

Toxic (Poem)

My state’s toxic level is number two
I read earlier today.
The article was on Yahoo!
(The writing was just okay.)
We burn heaps of coal to power stuff,
Huge amounts of it.
I’ve lived here decades and breathed enough;
My lungs have turned to shit.

Rehab (Poem)

Never been in rehab,
But I sure wish I could.
You go in feeling unfab,
And walk out feeling good.
People cut you lots of slack,
And forgive all your misdeeds.
They’re just so glad to see you back,
After a some months of stringing beads.

Suicide (Poem)

Suicide is wrong and bad
So don’t you ever do it.
Killing you makes others sad,
An’ that’s the main thing to it.
Mental strife, it comes and goes
But laughs weigh more than tears.
At the apex of your lowest woes,
Please do take heart, my dears.
One life is it and there’s no god
Seek help, don’t write that letter.
It’s cold and lonesome ’neath the sod,
Hang on ’cause things get better.

Exercise (Poem)

Exercise is good for you,
So do some every day.
It keeps us all from being blue;
It makes you feel OK.
Walk fast, run hard, swim and bike,
Lift weights or play some tennis.
Roll a big wheel down the pike,
Box a man named Dennis.
Throw a ball and do sit ups,
Ski down or cross a field.
Stand up tall and win some cups,
Use well what you were dealed.
Exercise will keep you fit,
Make sure to do it often.
I do much more than just a bit,
And will carry my own coffin. 

Soccer (Poem)

All hail Nippon, they won the game,

Good job, my Asian friends!

Ratings soared, ad rates insane,

A commercial for Depends?

We Yanks don't like this football sport

And I'm here to tell you why:

We simply can't and won't support

A game that ends a tie.

Dieting (Poem)

I’ve been on diets several times
To knock off a few pounds.
I tried a fork that had no tines,
It was crazy as it sounds.
I drank quarts of water really fast
To fill my empty belly.
Someone said fat wouldn’t last
If coated with KY jelly.
I ate just meat, eschewing bread,
They said that that would help.
But soon that seemed so very dead,
I once heard a cutlet yelp.
I stopped dieting, said, “Screw this mess,”
And lost a fifth my weight.
The secret, I found, was to eat less.
I did and now feel great.

My Confessions (Poem)

I was raised pretty rightly,
But I haven’t always been good.
Here are my wrongs, written sprightly,
With a pencil made of wood.
At seven I stole Mike’s G.I. Joe,
His gun, his boots and all.
At nine big kids told me to go,
So I hid their ball.
At eleven I copied from a girl named Dee,
During a math test we both were taking.
It was the first time I ever got a B,
My hands, they were a’ shaking.
At 15 I took ten bucks from Mother,
I bought candy, a record and Mad.
At 16 I eavesdropped on my big brother,
To see what girlfriends he had.
In college I cleaned up my act
And did only good for years.
At times I showed too little tact,
After downing too many beers.
Just two more wrongs I’ll now relate:
At thirty I touched a girl’s thigh,
At forty, and this contained some hate,
I shot a man to watch him die.

The Weekly Suburban Paper (Poem)

Oh, the weekly suburb sheet,
It details so much of life.
Local crooks, turn up the heat,
Talk to a commissioner’s wife.
High school sports are pretty cool,
Zoning issues cause some big trouble.
A kid drowned in a public pool?
Circulation may very well double!
And don’t forget the society page,
Gowned women, black-tied men.
School pages talk of the latest rage:
Blue jeans are back again.
Last and saddest are the obits,
Accounts of lives lived long.
Grandkids’ names listed like hits,
Look out, don’t spell them wrong.

Big Bombs (Poem)

Big bombs are good at killing lots
While they shop or go to work.
They blow up adults and the tots,
They kill with one quick jerk.
They get airmailed or sent by truck
And sometimes in a car.
They’ll turn a good bod into muck,
Some will fit inside a jar.
They do their job so super well,
There’s just one problem with ’em:
It doesn’t take too much to tell,
That they’re a coward’s weapon.

Horror Movies (Poem)

I've sat in many movie places, 

Feet stuck right to the floor,

Seen raw fear on actors' faces,  

And been scared to the core. 

Hitchcock's "Birds" ruled my roost, 

The suspense was something frightful.  

DePalma's "Carrie" gave my heart a boost,  

A shock ending so delightful.  

At age ten vampires filled my head,  

Men turning into bats!  

I still see creatures 'neath my bed,  

And have a fear of cats.  

Now all that scary movies do  

Is show tortured people screaming.  

Cut open here and out comes goo;  

Little tension, zero meaning.

Do you have class? (Poem)

Do you belong to the upper crust,
Or on C list and not A?
Blow on your specs, remove the dust,
And take this test, O.K.?
If you wear a sports jersey,
And sing "Happy Birthday to Yous!"
In the Social Book you won't be,
Hang on for more clues.
Is the only suit you have for court?
Do you lick finger to turn a page?
Chew gum and smoke, are you the sort
Who thinks Doc Phil's a sage?
Have you donned a nutria pelt?
Do you drink beer from the can?
At airports must you remove your belt?
Do you address your friends as "man"?
If this is true, you ain't Main Line,
But it's cool, just swell, you'll see.
When dead your buds will think it's fine
To paint car windows, "RIP."

 

I Get Girls’ Numbers (Poem)

Saturday is here it’s time to don
My grade-A party suit.
I’m sure that I will come upon
A babe who’s really cute.
Chicks dig me, yeah, they like my style
They think I’m clever, cool.
They talk with me for quite awhile;
A stud, I do so rule.
I think I meet chicks from TV,
This ain’t no shuck and jive;
The numbers that they give to me
All start with five-five-five.

Scientology (Poem)

L. Ron Hubbard once made a bet
With other sci-fi scribes
That a new religion he could net
By a novel with holy vibes.
Dianetics was the result
It worked, you’ve seen the news;
It pulled the spoiled into its cult
T. Danson, K. Alley, Tom Cruise.
Half a million think of ancient lizards
When planning how to live
We’ve sometimes asked our social wizards
Will this crap never give?
They say Who knows, but it’s all right
All faiths will have their day
Religion is fiction for our plight;
It keeps dark death at bay.

Middle Age (Poem)

The first sign I hit middle age,
Was around ten years ago.
My hormones began to cease their rage,
To the point of sometimes no go.
Young female beauty lost its power,
I treat them like all others.
They are just another pretty flower,
I hope they’ll be good mothers.
It’s sad that my heart gets no kicks,
From past passions and fears.
But it may be good to save those ticks,
For my declining years. 

The Girl for Me (Poem)

I can’t describe in words Miss Right,
Outline my wants and needs.
I couldn’t pick her out by sight,
Nor find her among weeds.
I’ve turn ons and offs, to be sure –
Brunette, thin, no armhair please.
Not tall, smart, she’s the soup de jour,
Limit: One cat, no fleas.
I saw a sleeping girl on a winter bus,
It lurched, eyes met, she smiled.
Decades ago, in Minneapolis,
I’ve kept the moment filed.
I had a second to have my say,
No guts, no words, no groan.
The smile faded, she looked away,
And since I’ve lived alone.

Money (Poem)

I’ve worked hard for years,
I’ve earned my keep.
I’ve seldom had to borrow.
I respect my fears,
I sow then reap,
And save for dark tomorrow.
I never made the bigger bucks,
I have no yacht or mooring.
But meeting rich folks for some yucks,
I’ve always found them boring.

 

My Love Life (Poem)

I’ve been crazy in love only twice,
The first time was in college.
She decided it’s women she found nice,
And in time she shared that knowledge.
Time two was someone I found a beauty
Shy, smart – she had it all.
With her I’d have done full marital duty,
She said yes, but in St. Paul.
If you saw me it’s fine if you just ate;
I’m not so bad to see.
(Friends don’t believe I’ve been celibate
Since 1983.)
Women don’t just like looks and money
And men who aren’t too old.
Other things draw them like bees to honey,
Or so I have been told.

City Girls

In his teens, the Complete and Total Loser visited the city just once or twice a year, if that, despite living just a short train ride or drive away. 

That was suburban life in the 1970s for the unadventurous types; cities were dangerous places where the likelihood of being a crime victim was high. It was far safer to stay trapped in the suburbs, with its lawns to mow, leaves to rake and rides to shopping centers and movie theaters to be had. 

When he did journey to the city, it was the girls that impressed the Loser most. 

Suburban girls were gentle and soft. They spoke in modulated tones and had no accents. Their clothes were expensive and staid. They dressed like younger versions of their mothers, who knew your parents or your parents' friends.

The city girls wore halter tops, smoked openly and used double negatives with thick accents, dropping their g's, swallowing vowels and swearing. Their breasts were firm and you could see their nipples. Their cheeks were scarred by acne but their arms and shoulders were smooth and muscled, powerful. They were daughters of men who worked with their hands and they'd fight other girls for dates with men who wore uniforms. 

They were so far from anything the Loser knew they may as well have been Ming Dynasty concubines for all their mystery.

A tough, city girl holds a baseball.

Future Pet (Poem)

When it comes to liking the household pet
I’m good with cane- and feline.
But thinking of which one to get
I’m waiting before to choose mine.
The brave new world of gene splicing,
Should give more options for us yuppies.
It will be oh so enticing
To see litters of pitties and kuppies.
Half cat, half dog, that’s what I’ll pick,
A friend both loyal and mysterious.
The idea may make some sick,
I am, however, completely serious.
My Persian pit bull will climb a tree
And scare off all the bad guys
He’ll me-ark! and then jump up on me
And bloody both my thighs.
Or how about a golden catriever
To fetch my pipe and slippers?
She’ll purr and whine, a stress reliever,
I’ll feed her beef and kippers.
My cog or dat I’ll keep for life
My house will need no locks.
But I’ll need to find a good strong wife
To clean the litter box.

Hard-Ass Dads (Poem)

It’s good to have a hard-ass dad,Mine was mild and weak.
Tough ones keep you from being bad,
I’m polite but much too meek.
The plus of being the nice pops,
Over ones who are never lax.
Is when the pushing never stops
And junior kills you with an ax.