"Dry Clean Linen Pants"

A note, a promise
a then-future, now-past version of someone I wanted
to be.
it all seems so silly now
dry cleaning and linen pants belong to generation I haven't grown
into
these things belong in the routine of my grandmother, muttering her to-do list as she wakes. A woman of rhythm.
a note on a whiteboard underneath the word "thursday"
it reads: *dry clean linen pants

more of a promise
to take care of yourself
or at the very least
maintain your
armor.

Patience, fate
Trees and treasures of kind
The tale of inclined sate
Has a sunny disposition, as if time

Care for a threshold of dissuasion another day?
Real regret, is the purpose behind our musings
Anger and delves of uniqueness, are to begin with may
A choice of shoulders, save itself for what patience looses...

Salt, is a final run to safety, a hug in the wind?
Curious speed, the irony of candor, to exist
Bred upon balance and the common, the tone of a new voice
That was a care, the towardness of you, an embarrassed list...

With no man's land, came the wish of potential
Sulking and denoted to be, the vice of remembering
The otherwise certain specific, the tongue of quintessential
Looks of responsibility for a question to guidance, sometimes humbling...

Will you marry me?
Places of blossoms, and the callous through and due, today
Of a quiet simplicity, for the anecdote of when boding is anarchy
Isn't a world of itself, the only reason a challenged voice, was anyway?

Persist and pout
The devil and the deed of the bluesy's...
Right to contain and contemplate another good intent, shout
Upon a caring rainbow found in the mere, all more, and me...

I bought these designer pants yesterday,
Endorsed by all the gram influencers,
They are slimming they all gushed.

The pants are made of the softest wool,
Designed to cocoon and insulate you,
Protect you from all the judgement.

They have pretend pockets stitched in,
Because what could you possibly put in them,
That’s more important than looking thin?

"red pants
burning bottom
soft cream prescription."

"pantalonasi rosii foc
dos colorat
prescriem crema."

"les pantalons rouges
quel bel cul ardent
douce creme prescrite."

I

I celebrate my pants, and sing my pants,
And what I wear you shall wear,
For every thread belonging to me as good belongs to you.

II

I saw the best pants of my generation destroyed by madness, bleaching faded skinny,
dragging themselves through the crowded malls at noon looking for the perfect selfie,
man-bunned hipsters burning for the contemporary digital connection to the social dynamo in the machinery of online relevance

III

Let us go Pants, you and I,
With evening wash spread out against the sky
Like a ghost dancing upon the breeze;
Let us go, through certain half-full baskets,
The smelly caskets
Of unwashed trousers from one-week neglected hampers.

IV

Something there is that doesn't love my pants,
That sends the frayed-torn-cuffs under it,
And spills my muffin top in the sun;
And makes love handles even two can hold to love.

V

I have stolen
the pants
that were in
the dressing room

and which
you were probably
wearing
for a party

Forgive me
they were comfy
so soft
and so stylish


VI

Because I could not fit my Pants –
I kindly split the Seam –
The Problem is quite obvious –
I need some stronger Jeans.

VII

The patterns on your pants   
Could make a designer cry;   
But I hung on to your stance:   
Plaid boldly with tie-dye.

VIII

Call the maker of big pants,
The fabulous one, and bid him zip
In seamstress studs sumptuous sewing.

IX

What happens to lost pants?

      Do they stiffen up
      like paper as it dries?
      Or do they balloon up —
      and into the sky rise?

X

I bought some tremendous pants
and held them beside the cart
half off the hanger, with the hook
fast in the belt loop around the waist.
There was no fight.
No one had fought at all.
They hung a defeated weight,
overlooked and spurned.

I got me a Kangaroo
Lives way down in my pants
He seldom sits quiet
He'd rather get up and dance.

He goes Bo-ing! Boing! Boing!
I can't get him stopped
He's always on the go
Yea! he's always on the hop.

                     II

Well, he ain't no Dodo
He sure knows how to pogo
Even when I say no! no!
He keeps on on the go! go!
(Bit of a yo-yo)

And when he's full of vim
There's no catching him
I only hope my pants hold out
And he don't pop out.

                         III

Now how can I put forward
My Best face
When I got him down there
Bouncing all over the place.

He's up, then he's down
Then he's back up again
Up and down all day
Like a demented drawbridge.

                       IV

He goes Bo-ing! Boing! Boing!
And I go Down! Down! Down!
Whoa-aa Boy!

I go one way
While he goes the other
Man! he's tearing me asunder
I'm every which way.

My mind full of insecurities & fears
And my Kangaroo down there
He's looking up at me saying
What the hell are you doing up there.

                            V

O! what am I going to do
With my wild Kangaroo,
What am I going to do !!!
What! Get him a didgeridoo ???
(A didgeri-didgeri-doo!)

Have you got a Kangaroo
Down in your pants ?
"Ooooo! Whoo!" sang the girls
     "yes! we Dooo Whooo!!!"
What! Wait a minute, you mean...
You mean girls, they got Kangaroos too !!!