"Hey," I said, reading her poem,
"That's pretty good." And by
pretty good, I meant good.
And by good I meant very good.
And by very good I meant
so good I had to change
my pants. Bravo!

I

I think it a clever
pre-emptive move when
I order him a vest
with the stitched message:

"Please Don't Kick The Dog."

No need to tell you
how that works out.

So I take the vest back
to the fire pit and he and I
watch it burn.

                 II

I take my dog for a walk
and, tugging on his leash,
he pulls me along, nose
to the ground, wandering
here, there and everywhere,
stopping now and then
to strategically ***,
living an adventure I can
only remotely share.

                 III

My dog, seated, lifts a leg
to lick himself down there
and looks a little puzzled.

They're gone, of course.

I pat his head,
offer him a meaty treat.

"Sorry Butch," I say,
"I was only following the vet's advice.
Try not to hold it against me,"
then I offer up my hand.

Lick or bite? It's up to him.

Didn't feel comfortable
playing characters smarter
than me, better looking than me,
more successful than me

Now I work at McDonald's

An exhibition and
Michelle Kwan skating
to the Tori Amos song
"Winter"

Not yet knowing
that the Olympic Gold Medal

she so desperately craves
and deserves will
forever elude her

My mind is blown.
Destroyed.
I'll never recover.
Ever.

Meghan McCain
is correct on this one.

The Chinese elite raised
on repression, torture
and butchery, carry on
with repression, torture
and butchery.

But Big Money talks
and the IOC plays
a game of let's pretend.

And Peng Shuai?
Her ****** is probably
first on the list for when
they harvest her organs.

"Get out of the garden!"
No, it wasn't God yelling
it was the angry old man
next door and this wasn't
"That" Garden it was
the small vegetable
garden in his back yard.

And it was two young boys,
their pockets full of carrots,
radishes, turnips and not
Adam and Eve who made
a run for it.

Later, they tossed
their ***** into the gutter
because neither one of them
much liked veggies.