ebony! page 1
Category: original content
too much (cheese song)
A short poem to the tune of
Jax’s “Victoria’s Secret”.
i know the “melty cheese” secret
boy, you wouldn’t believe
it’s just fast-food mumbo-jumbo to sell you
on slices sealed in a factory
by staff that’s quicker to rehire
than to teach how to retire –
i know the “melty cheese” secret:
it’s the same mom grilled for me & you.
//wd 10.17.2024
Photo by Nano Erdozain on Pexels.com
Kubrick & cannabis and sex positions
A poem about compulsions,
with allusions to “2001”.
i haven’t seen any
good porn lately
oh baby, oh baby
who cares
i’m Silver-Surfing around Uranus
leaving my traces,
as we zoom out to the vastness of space –
there’s one old account still active:
a beacon;
a still, moldy vessel for public lice
with all the water-under-the-surface secrets of a
dirty-minded twenty-something’s
compulsionary vice,
frozen in time
and nothing’s going off there, either.
it’s not for lack of invocation:
putting on my web goggles;
tightening my gloves
like i’m the Baron, speed-cracking my knuckles,
despite no chance against Snoopy like
Charlie versus Lucy.
that’s a thousand hours of dedication
i could have poured into anything else.
a metaphysical altercation in the parking lot at Macca’s
aka. ruining it
A poem about excuses and constants.
oh God,
my life.
it’s 11:59 on my Saturday night
and His phone is already on silent.
i wish i could afford the same capacity to ignore
knowing omnipresently that everything was
alright.
back to life.
back to reality.
however do you want me?
i’m watching a twenty-something YouTube partner from Australia
demonstrate a twenty-dollar iPod rip-off from China
while i dig into another box of Extra Toasty Cheez-It’s –
courtesy of Kellanova –
cronch-cronch-cronch
lip-smacking-sounds amok
and at the back of my mind, i can’t help to wander
why i still haven’t taken my two scoops of
smooth, orange-flavoured fibre,
of which consideration is by Procter & Gamble
and the cold enamel
of the toilet bowl i’ve yet to spackle.
the jester takes comparison pics between the knock-off,
his iPhone, and his Pixel
of his dog,
his mouser,
his fenced-in yard –
and i know how much pet food costs:
while i personally have none, i have family who does
and it occurs to me that’s probably where this was
and then the camera flips to face his quaff,
looking like i could have fifteen years younger
had i kept the same locks,
and avoided whatever life conundrum concocted the lump
what is the foreign organ from my father
in my tum,
and the fat it collected as it settled upstream
and the broken record’s excuse for skipping is that
some things in life are just worth repeating
too bad: part three
The third of a short story in three parts.
“The night of Cassidy & Arthur’s dinner ‘date’ & its aftermath, and the story ends.”
Click Here for Part One & Part Two.
x
“Arthur? Is that you?“
Cassidy was confused to see him. She hopped on twenty minutes in to his bus ride, knapsack in-tow, to see him sitting near the front of the bus on one of the benches parallel to the aisle, wearing a sweatshirt with the hood up. She recognized his stubble. There wasn’t a spot next to him, so she hovered, still sporting her knapsack, holding on to the grip bar with clammy palms.
“Hm?“
She reached for his hood and flipped it off his head. He had some very noticeable scratches at the base of his nose and along his eyebrow line, but it was him, “What are you doing taking the bus?”
“Oh hi.”
“What are you doing taking the bus?”
“I couldn’t get my car started.”
“Oh.”
“…What are you doing taking the bus?”
“Somebody said they were driving later.”
“Oh. You couldn’t get a ride?”
“I didn’t think I needed one.”
“Oh. I had figured I’d just drive us wherever from the restaurant and then take us back to your car.”
“Never mind. I’m over it.”
“…We’re still going out after though, right?”
“How am I getting home?”
“…The bus?“
“Heh, you’re funny.” He wasn’t.
“I’m sorry, Cassidy. It kind of threw me for a loop, too. You’re on my route, though, so I guess we can just come back the same way together, when we’re done.”
“Sure.” They puttered silently for a minute as the bus rolled along, “How much longer does it take?”
“Only, like, ten more minutes.”
“That close, huh?”
“Yeah, it just rips by when you’re driving yourself. You don’t get all the little detours.”
“Actually, I usually have to take the long way around on the highway. If I could take the one-way roads like a bus, I’d never be late for a shift.” She snorted. Arthur grimaced.
The bus went over a bump, and Cassidy lost her balance and stepped backward, smooshing her knapsack against the face of someone sitting on the chair behind her, “Get off of me!”
Cassidy looked behind her, “Oh, I’m so sorry!” She took her bag off and put it on the floor next to her. She started to think of another one of those absurd porn videos she’d seen in those brief, intimate exposures online, where it looked like the Japanese schoolgirl was getting raped on a public bus full of salarymen. But those would-be idiots had better watch out this time! She had pepper spray ready! She just had to kneel down, reach into her knapsack after she took it off, and fish for it – in the meantime, her ass would be sticking out. She’d be a sitting duck.
Arthur started to stand, “Did you want to sit down?”
“…No. No, thanks, I’m fine. It’s not much longer anyway.” He could have offered earlier, “So what happened to your face?”
“What about my face?”
“Your face! You have scratches all under here.” She motioned around her nose with her finger. Arthur flipped his hood back up.
“I just cut myself a few times while I was shaving. It’s no big deal.” They didn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride. Both justified the silence by being comfortable enough with one another to share the moments when neither had to speak. Or something.
theory of a daskeman 