when i’m on the clock,
i’ll talk back to a manager
no problem,
if i think it’ll get me anywhere
or not in trouble
or teased by female staff
but i won’t tell the guy
sitting in my reserved seat at the
movie theatre to
move over
please.
some words are too much trouble
for too little reward,
save my father and i getting
what we paid for.
he won’t say anything either.
//wd 12.20.2025
Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com.
the Universe
on occasion
needs to realize the limits
of humankind’s existence.
the drunk who calls his girlfriend
a cunt
is still getting the same horoscope
as you or i:
“today you may die,
but if you don’t,
the cosmos is on your side.”
what is that turning point?
giving her one about
moving on.
//wd 12.11.2025
Photo by brenoanp on Pexels.com.
where did she goooo?
…
mah luuuv-ly?
ah wanna nooooo…
wh-r do u whar do u goooo?
“what?”
i’m talkin’ ‘boute that one renter,
you know,
with the smokin’ hot bod
and the mini pincher dog,
who we only ever saw
when they’d test the fire alarm?
the babe, not the dog.
h-h-h-ho-ho-way
h-h-h-ho-ho-way
“who’re you
yammering about now,
hm?
i told you the girl at Jasper’s funeral was
probably twelve.
it’s the GMOs in the food:
that’s why rule of sevens, dude.”
the smitten
are only going to give you
as much grace as they can.
nothing waits forever
unless you work across from them
often turning one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees
in their direction
not for them –
it’s just part of your job description;
accidentally break
at the same time as them,
back-and-forth, braiding one another between
the sink and the toaster oven.
they exit the saloon doors
one after another like a
fashion show,
or open functions on an AS400
or ants, out of woodwork
marching vertically along split trenches of bark,
their petite outlines shadowed by the street lights
of the car park.
i don’t know how much time has passed.
i wasn’t keeping track, and
i’m almost hooting ash.
when do i have to go back?
so it looks more like i’m smoking
and less like a jackass?
it’s a great excuse, to be so old-fashioned
you’d rather you lived in an era you were able
than every five minutes having to excuse yourself
from the table.
theory of a daskeman 