Oh dear
Oh dear
I've happened upon a queer
I don't quite know
how this should go
luckily I have my rulebook here

Morality for Fools
tells me homosexuality is a sin
Now I'm allowed
To yell it out loud
and tell him how naughty he's been

Oh dear
Oh dear
My neighbor's wife is licking my ear
Oh what should I do?
What happens next?
Lucky I keep the rulebook on top of my desk

Morality for fools
tells me that adultery is wrong
so I ask her to leave
and she seems a bit peeved
as she was itching to get out of that thong

I'll be the first to confess
It's sometimes a mess
to keep it all straight in my head
You see, I have no morality of my own
so I use the book's instead

It's perfectly fine
and I really don't mind
It's so much simpler this way
I'd rather be told what to do in my life
than make my own choices all day

A man was invited to his boss's house for dinner.
The dinner was fabulous, made by a private chef
and served by the family butler.  It was, all in all,
a wonderful evening.

At the end of the meal, the man saw his host
collecting all the table scraps from the table.

"What are you doing?" asked the man
"Ah, well whatever I don't eat, I give to the butler and the chef."
"They can't buy their own food?"
"Well no, I pay them in scraps"
"That's terrible!"
"Why?  I eat my meal, I usually leave enough for them to live off of, unless I forget"
"Unless you forget?"
"Well, yeah...I mean a few glasses of wine and that food is as good as gone"
"You see nothing wrong with this?"
"Hmm...no.  Should I?"
"You are feeding your staff table scraps!  The amount they're getting is miniscule!  It's a miracle they haven't sued you!"
"Aha! I do see your point.  It is a rather meager amount.  Fortunately, since I'm such a clever fellow...I have a solution"
"You mean to give your staff full meals to eat?  Maybe pay them with money instead?"
"Haha, no no my simple man.  I'll just have them cook and serve more food!"
"What."
"Well it's rather simple.  If the amount of food that is cooked and served is increased, and I eat the same amount, then what's left over will be equivalent of a full meal!  Brilliant!"
"Well...yes...but what if you get drunk on wine and eat all of that food"
"I'm sure that I would never do such a thing.  Probably"
"Probably"
"Well, one can't always predict these things"
"So instead of giving them a fair meal, you'd rather them put in more effort and time so that they 'might' see an increase in their rations?"
"I know.  I should get a Nobel prize for this stuff"
"Or commited"
"What?"
"Um...commended"
"Quite right"

I walked to the place today
the place where our bridge
   used to be.  
It's still hidden
deep within my mind.  I
know the way to the spot
all too well.

I stand and look across the chasm

The structures that anchored our bridge
to the canyon wall are now overgrown
  with ivy and vines.  The once
mighty body of the bridge itself
   lies a thousand feet below, slowly
eaten away by the river of change.
The river that also eats away at our
canyon walls, pushing us ever further
      apart.

I remember when we built that bridge.
I saw you across the ravine.  You didn't
notice me, you were too busy smelling
the tiger lilies.  I was in awe.
I felt like a fool pretending to be wise
I felt like a boy pretending to be a man

I yelled towards you, hoping you'd notice.
You did.
You smiled.
I almost died right there.

I sent you love poems on kites
You always blushed as you read

Then one day I threw over a line.
It was just the beginning.
Over the months, I built upon that
line, until I had constructed a
mighty bridge to
Span the gap


I was finally together with you
Everything was right.  My life
was filled with a soothing light.


I remember the night our bridge collapsed.
I remember the hateful words and venemous,
acidic thoughts that became kindling.
We spit bile and gasoline soaked barbs at each other
soaking the bridge with discontent.
We hurled insults at breakneck speeds, creating
sparks with the collisions.  The result was a towering
inferno between us.  It was fueled by contempt and
selfishness.  

Still we shouted, unaware of the permanence of what
we were doing

By the time we came to our senses, we were too late.
The bridge creaked and bowed as the fire consumed
it.  I remember the last thing I saw before it fell.  I saw
your eyes staring at me through the flames, your
beautiful eyes lit up by the moment.  The tears
reflected off of your face.

The bridge finally plummeted into the abyss below.  It
was a falling star of potential energy.  What we could
have had. I cringe when I think of how black the river
looked that night.


Now I'm standing here at the spot that it all
started.  I look up, and I see you on the other
side again.  You're wearing a white dress and
a smile.

I smile back.
My heart glides.

Ready to begin anew

There once was a blues man
as skinny as could be
who went by the moniker
of Boney Bones Dupree

He was the worst singer
I ever had heard
sounded like an alley cat
who done choked on a bird

His guitar wasn't tuned
it whined and it wailed
as he struck it with a
sharp and rusty 'ol nail

His teeth were yellow
his eyes were gray
his hair looked like
stray bits of hay

Still people came
from miles around
to listen to his music,
his haunting sound

He danced on the stage
in jaunty puzzle steps
you could hear the *****
comin' off of his breath

He'd scream one verse
until his face'd turn red
then he'd whisper the next
while he stood on his head

He'd jump up and down
and slam his guitar
throw the **** thing
right over the bar

Then he'd look to the crowd
and playfully smile
and thank us for
sharing his crazy awhile

After taking a shot
and waving goodbye
he went and jumped
back into the sky

He painted those evening
clouds with delight
as we watched him
sail off into the night

Outta sight.

I had questions on death
I had questions on life
I had questions about
poverty
hatred
and strife

I was told I should visit a
particularly peculiar man
who would set me right
who would give me a plan

I ran

I crossed mountains and oceans
and jungles and lagoons
I swam and I hiked and I trekked.

I finally found him in a field
a nondescript field of Indonesia
He sat cross legged within a hut.

A hut not made of mud
A hut not made of sticks

A hut made of hair.

A hut made of his own hair.
Still connected to his head.

He wore no clothes, but his
beard was so long that he
was able to wrap it about
himself as a shawl.

Interspersed throughout
the hair were baubles and
trinkets, folded notes and
photos.  Gifts from those
who had visited him before

It was a sight to behold

I was in awe

I had barely a chance
to utter a syllable when
he opened his eyes

and stared at me
and stared   through   me
as if in a trance

Then he spoke.

The answering of thousands
of questions had clearly taken
a toll on the man's voice, yet
his lilted rasp was somehow
soothing.

"You have questions, my boy?
You wish to know my secrets?
Do you want to know the key
        to life?"

Yes.  Yes I did.

He smiled

"Young man, I have sat here
for seventy-eight years, focusing
         my entire life and all my
conscious thought on that very
thing.  My wife supported me
until her death.  My sons still
support me.  They visit me
often and make sure I stay
     healthy and fed.  I have
weathered famine and storms,
sickness and droughts searching
      for the answer you seek."

He closed his eyes

"I have forgone a life of
passion and comfort and
instead focused within myself
to find this answer.  In all
this time I have only found
one thing to be true."

I waited for the answer

"Life is not meant to be
explained.  It is meant to
be experienced.  There
is no answer, only more
questions.  I swore not
to move from this spot
until I had discovered
what life meant.  My
hair and beard are
constant reminders
of my foolishness."

He smiled

"Go and live"

and surely I did


__
*Acersecomic - n - One whose hair has never been cut

If I had a dollar for every poem I wrote....

I'd have like a billion dollars

Because I would just write a program
that spits out random words and phrases

Then someone would tell me that they're
only going to pay me 50 cents per poem
if I'm going to be like that.

I'd be like "Whatever, dude...that's still half a billion dollars"

Can't be greedy, you know.

Then they'd try to pass some sort of law defining what a poem
can and can't be, spending millions of tax-payer dollars to stop
me from writing poems like this:

SHITAKE DUCK FOOTBALL
magnifying glass eats adolph ******
can I be valentine bubblewrap
I think so maybe
I peanut butter 1975 Yankees
Did you ****?
Robocop.

The judge would rule in my favor.  That would really ****
off the poor saps that had to pay me for my poems.


Doesn't really matter though....





No one pays me for this ****.