From the moment I was born
I was deemed terminal
And in keep with any known disease
If not kept in check, will get the best of me

The day the doctor slapped my rear
And said boy, get on out of here
I’m sure you’ll do just fine
With this crazy thing called life

And that’s exactly what this young kid did
Running the streets and loving it
Live it like there ain’t no cure
Love life like it’s terminal

The only thing to put a stop to it
Is the day you’re declared dead
No time for the bitter pill of sorrow
Live life like there’s no tomorrow

I do believe they might be right
Today is the first day of the rest of your life
So when you’re told that you should live
Do your best to make the best of it

Laugh and love, smile and hug
Like you never have enough
Live it like there ain’t no cure
Love life like it’s terminal

I am a page
Inside a dusty book

Easy to read
Line by line
But a whole paragraph
Might blow your mind

Part tear stained
Definitely dog eared

Easily able
To put me down
Knowing where I am at
When you come back around

I am a page
With lots to say

At times
I make perfect sense
But on that front
You still take a chance

Coffee stained
Slightly torn page

Many flaws
But easy to see
Through it all
Well worth the read

The boulder river almost called
the figure leaning on the bridge.

The height wasn't much
but one touch would crush.

He saw a doll with its blood
floating away with the current.

Thin line, he muttered under his breath,
I never realised
it was this thin.

He snatched himself away from the moment
and headed towards the rest house
thinking
I would give it a try,
some time.

No joy is greater than playing with the children
It's then you stoop to be a child
And stop to be an adult.

You must choose to lose
When playing with them
Pretend you know little
About the game.

They win and you heartily clap
You lose yet wear a broad smile
You're almost their age when you play
Giggle and roll and laugh to make their day.

Suddenly you realise it's no pretense
You're truly a child in all its essence
There was always a little one in you
Happy carefree and without a worry.

Grab the rare chances to play with them
Change your mind, take a new name
Patient or doctor or thief or police
Whatever the game, your reward is bliss.

My wife agreed to marriage counseling before the great divorce,
and of course, she picked the counselor.  This is it; one session, one shot at redemption.  I waited with bated breath for the day to arrive.
It did.  We met at his office, where hope was dashed to shreds like a ship
on a coral reef, like dreams of domestic bliss made of glass and shattered on the kitchen floor with no broom to sweep them up.
We shouldn't get lawyers and go to court.  We should have a funeral and sing, Rock of Ages, because divorce is the death of a family.

The room is nice and cold as ice, and he's friendly, boisterous, and bold, but here's the clincher, he wore an eye patch.  Maybe he had surgery or some type of injury, but everything he said was drowned out by the voice in my head that screamed, "He looks like a pirate, and no ******* pirate is going to tell me how I should have been a better husband."  I quickly scanned the room for a cage where he kept his parrot, which usually sat on his shoulder and sang old songs of the sea.  I glanced at his right hand, but conveniently it was hidden by the desk.  Now I was sure.  It wasn't a hand at all, but a hook, that he used to scratch his ***, or to spear the shreds of broken lives left over from a long day's work.  His hand was probably a casualty, lost on a voyage to a shark he tried to advise.

I leaned over and whispered in my wife's ear, "Where did you find this ******* nut. Long John Silvers?"  The humor eluded her like the sunken treasure did the old sea dog that sat across from me.  I swore if he said, "Aye aye matey."  I would smack him, and jack his ship, and maybe my wife and I would sail south to the Caribbean, not to the ride at Disneyland, Pirates of the Caribbean, but to the islands, where we would lie **** on the sandy beaches and drink Pina Coladas, or some other fruit-filled umbrella drink, until we were so drunk we couldn't see straight, and all our problems would sink like the setting sun into a brand new horizon.  But the old scalawag had no pirate lingo, so the hour came and went, our money was poorly spent, and it was lunchtime, and I was bent on seafood.

She doesn't understand her
biology.
Her need for extra attention.
Her desire to
chirp and meow
constantly, and raise her
**** in the air.

She gazes out the
window with
longing in her
golden eyes.
Her calls through the
screen bring no
visitors.
Little lonely orphan.

She sits with me while
I write at my large
maple desk.
She swats at the
purple orchid.
It drives her batty.
I've been there.
Lost in the
smell and taste of
flowers.
She wanders over to
the Starry Night
painting and looks
dizzy at the sky.
She lifts her **** in
the air and stutter steps
rapidly with her
back paws.

When I got her and
her sister, I thought they
had *****.
I named him (her)
Bukowski.
She comes to the
name
and seems to like it.
Pray for me.
Buk's in heat.

I'm in a cool group.
To stay on top
of my writing, and to
promote and market
my poetry, I often
publish online.
If Lord Byron could
hear that.

In this place that
I belong,
I have deadlines.
I procrastinate until
the very last day, and then
scribble some ******
lines and get angry with
myself for putting the
writing off.

I have a couple of
weeks before I need
to write a sonnet or villanelle.
I'm getting anxiety.
It's not producing the
desired effect of
hard work or discipline.
No
Not that.
It is getting me thinking.
That is sometimes productive,
and usually comical.

I'm thinking about
the 15 months I've
been sober.
For many years,
I was miserable.
Drinking and writing.
Writing and drinking.
Holding the bottle of
***** to my shivering
lips to get the last
spider of liquid.
My clothes smelled of
decay and cowardice, and
everything tasted like
rotten meat.

Now, I have a beautiful
maple desk that my three
cats like to sleep
on while I write
poems about
procrastination and sobriety.
Such fuzzy black miracles.
They twitch as they
dream of fish and catnip,
and just maybe they
dream about writing a
sonnet for me.
We are all
addicted to something.

Living on the Scandinavian streets have
humbled her.
No Christmas cards with
a 20 spot anymore.
No trust fund from
Mom and Dad.
All the money vanished like
the last spider of *****,
like a dropped bottle of beer.
She could go to a
shelter by herself,
but she chooses
life on the
streets in the
brutal winter to be
with her Swedish boyfriend.
Love is lunacy--sometimes frozen.
Two dead friends last year on
a mad moonlit night.
Human icicles on
the Iowa City streets.

One time while drunk,
her and I stole
the neighbor's canoe.
We had her little
black dog with us.
I dubbed him,
Senator Ted Kennedy;
probably because we
were all drunks,
(not the dog) I don't think...
We wrestled the canoe into
the Iowa River, and
immediately proceeded to
tip it over.
The Canoe sank like
a bad bet by Hunter S. Thompson.
We could've easily drowned, but we
laughed our ***** off,
choking and splashing,
except for Teddy, who swam
for Boston.

Down in the town of Mayonnaise
Spread out along the country side
Mayor Egg White came to proclaim
They soon would be fighting for their lives

Sandwiched between two armies
The tribes of Ham on Rye
Everyone must battle
So, bring along your spoons and knives

They mustard up the courage
Feeling they were in a pickle
The town of Mayo was spread thin
Until their hero showed, Sir Pumpernickel

Who used the magic of Miracle Whip
A bit tangy to the taste
But after all did the trick
Laying all of Mayonnaise's enemies to waste

Where the town brought out their knives and spoons
And soon cleaned up the mess
The Miracle Whip did what it was meant to
Giving the town of Mayonnaise its much needed rest