"skosh" poems
She was an old Mid-western woman.
She was a distinct type.
A stock-staple character,
Sort of half Beverly Hillbillies Granny,
Throw in a skosh Betty White,
Mixed in with a lot of that old lady
In Driving Miss Daisy.
Southern Indiana:
The Confederacy’s best kept secret.
But I digress.
She was my neighbor in Buckeye, Arizona,
A quaint agrarian township, way out
At the west end of Maricopa County, which is
An hour from the Phoenix airport, the so-called
Sky Harbor International Airport,
Which surely must be near the list’s top:
All-time most pretentious,
Hyperbolic Chamber of Commerce,
Municipal Boosterisms.
Wikipedia English - The Free Encyclopedia
Boosterism: the act of "boosting" (or promoting) a town, city, or organization, with the goal of improving public perception of it. Boosting can be as simple as "talking up" the entity at a party or as elaborate as establishing a visitors' bureau. It has been somewhat associated with American small towns. Boosting is also done in political settings, especially in regard to disputed policies or controversial events.
So, without thinking,
Walking down the driveway
To pick up the morning paper,
I let it slip:
“How are you?”
She’s leaning over the hedge,
As I bend down,
Picking up the local Pravda.
35 minutes later she sums up:
“I had to go to the doctor last night.
Gave me some cream for my pud.”
A twinkle in her eye—
She, my lascivious,
Old lady neighbor
In Buckeye, Arizona.
She had that sweet Mid-western thing
Working for her, her regional mojo.
And I’m right there on her wavelength:
The apple not falling far from my tree,
Or something like that . . .
I am losing my train of thought, here.
Last poem of the day, I guess.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
Your name is Filbert.
I'd rather use you as Fill.
Fill, gods may have put you here
for a victimless chatter,
but I'll bring you up
with the nonsense charge to meet
false expectations. I know
we don't see heart-to-heart, that
parting shouldn't stop us
from connecting the pesky
dots of our pupils. Let's learn
to be adult about this
uncontrolled glowing.
Your flighted fancies
can't leave the tarmac
without making one feel bold,
another frightened,
and everyone is a skosh
confused in the end.
I hope it doesn't bound
too negative. I meant well.
Apr 5, 2010
Apr 5, 2010 at 2:51 PM UTC
So I was reading a Paul Krugman review of
Capital in the 21st Century, that French guy’s
Thesis on economic inequality that seems to be
Getting so much play in intellectual circles these days.
The word rentier came up in Krugman’s text.
I realized by its context that I’d better consult
My Webster’s--an archaic, print-era device,
A volume I keep close to the couch,
The couch where I do most of my reading these days,
Particularly my NY Review of Books
And The New Yorker,
Obbligato for us holdouts,
We 21st Century pseudo-intellectuals.
Rentier: (from the Old French,
Noun rente, circa 1847),
A person who lives on income
From property or securities.
A status far cry from Renter:
A schmuck who pays the landlord
For the leaky roof above his head.
Rentier & Renter:
It’s words like these—
Essentially polar opposites—
That make understanding our world so difficult.
What chance does the uneducated person have?
What chance to grasp the importance of Piketty’s book,
Let alone be spurred on,
Driven to the barricades once more?
The great tragedy is this:
Piketty's book will reach the audience
Least likely to support the kind of
Progressive tax policy change,
Change that anyone left with
A mere skosh of 1960’s heart,
Would demand in terms of simple fairness.
Capital in the 21st Century
Will only be understood
By those with little or no inclination—
Be it intellectual of moral—
To deviate from the status quo.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 1:47 PM UTC
Funny how small the world is when it's not
Someone for each and everyone it seems
Until I reached my name, so I thought
The trans girl I attend school with exists only in my dreams
Surrounded by lovely people as well as some not so lovely
Various identities and orientations crossin' over
Two years nearly like this, and someone like me I've yet to see
Chance encounters in this full, desolate land are four-leaf clovers
Hard not to lament loneliness even when friends are there
Easy to force a smile and laugh as well as tell white lies
Sometimes make me feel a skosh needy, but I don't care
I stay wishin' for someone to gravitate towards to field my cries
Pipe down and keep dreamin', kid
Sit right back down and accept your fate
Too awkward, bad at first impressions, of that you won't get rid
You won't meet no girl like you, ain't that great?
If I were to meet my match, I'd be elated
The yin to my yang, the bullet to my gun
Give the F-word, hummingbird to sadness; like a balloon, I'd inflate
The good kind of mess; give dysfunction its 'fun'
I'd treat you like the lady you are
We'd sound similar when complimentin' ourselves, we homophones
Beat your face up and do the same to the ignorant, no matter how far
We'd have ourselves a gay ol' time, unlike a buncha homophobes
But above all else, I'd want to be there for you
Validate you and offer support whenever you deem it necessary
I want to be the best friend I can through and through
Do whatever it takes, doesn't matter how arbitrary
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 2:27 AM UTC