Tepid Coffee

I like my coffee semi-warm,

like jacket weather on an extended vacation.

Java that's been sitting around,

beats Joe

burning on a stove top-

I mean 'cmon, poor Joe,

he's been burning for hours.

Let the heretic off the fiery stake,

I want to peer into Galileo's genuine

telescope: a caffeine enriched magnifying lens

of amazing that goes down smoother

then silk.

Stuff that's been steeping for

an hour or two seems better to me,

than an instant tongue scalding

at four hundred degrees

So

I purposely wait for my cup to cool.

My mother will ask, "Why drink tepid coffee?"

But with so much excitement in the morning

already, it's nice that my

coffee can at least be relaxed.

 

Pasta Salad Love Song

Now I've never told this to anyone, but I love

Pasta Salad,

and, I'm going to be honest-

I'm going to slam the strainer on the table-

my love for Pasta Salad

transcends my love of most other things.

"Sorry Dad, you've been like a father to me,

but shut your box, my heart is of an al dente

tube-shaped variety and I have no need for

your cheese-sprinkled sentiments."

So I'm going to make this official.

I'm going to tie the strand because

Pasta Salad, you know all the

spaghetti straps in the world

couldn't arouse my curiosity

like a bowl of your bowties.

It's the truth.

And I know, I know,

you've heard this all before

and from guys with twice the spice,

but I'll change for you-

like the dirty pasta water

I will be boiled anew!

For instance, I know you don't like

the feel of steel wool on your dishes,

I'll work on that.

And you don't like it when I enjoy my lunch

at the local funeral home, that's fine-

I mean Three Bean Salad never cared

but that's all in the past!

I'm just looking forward

to spending my life with your saucy sense of style.

Wait, what?

You got a what in the oven?

Like a dinner roll?

Oh Pasta, baby, entree,

I don't understand!

We were going to go to Italy

together, meet the family.

We had this all planned out.

Okay, you know what?

It's okay, it's okay.

I'll tell you what I'm going to

go to the store, get some

smoked Gouda,

and when I come back we'll

sort all these Sponge Bob shapes

out. Because remember,

I've never told this to nobody,

but I love Pasta Salad.

 

Train Tracks

Wooden planks

under iron rails

sing a

Thomas the Tank Engine

whistle-song:

Woooooooooo!

I turn to my father,

and say:

"I want to be a train,"

he says,

"You want to be a train conductor."

So let's just back it up a second,

reverse the motion of this beast

.

Go and find the rusted river crossing,

the tinder-shelled bear trap of a bridge

with a browning underbelly

We cross with conviction

then splinter at the sight

of a hand-less man

unzipping his pants

with a hook.

Scrape the lint off your ticket,

implore these vinyl seats for clues.

How many drunken evenings

and afternoons with grandma

did you find?

As it turns out,

you're going somewhere

embedded in the ink of your dollar.

 

Hole In My Hoodsie Cup®

There's a hole in my Hoodsie Cup®,
the other half is gone,
the vanilla misses chocolate,
so I put this into a song.

There's a hole in my Hoodsie Cup®,
where your smile used to be,
the chocolate is all gone,
and the vanilla misses thee.

There's a hold in my Hoodsie Cup®
that all the world can see,
and when the flavors reunite again
you'll be holding hands with me.

Nature's Like My Moccasins

I've used you for an imaginary millennium

and you've yet to speak a work.

Your two holes in the bottom have found

you water to drink, and my feet fungus to grow.

It's been a daily chore of yours to taxi me around,

standing stoically rooted into the ground,

with nothing to do but scuffle onward

in search of dryer days.

I don't pick up my feet when I walk either

and so I would wonder if you'd hate me; if

I met you beneath the trees under the stars

and I asked you, would you date me?

I think you'd pass my little shoes,

you know too much about me:

my two left feet,

my knack of stomping toes

my inability to keep rhythm.

You know all about me.

So here's an idea!

I'll just keep you forever.

Put you on string around my neck.

You can be a charm, a thing of beauty

to be honored.

Your weather-beaten appearance

will be a testament to your

endurance.

 

Exercising My Rights

I exercise like I act in public,

which is the same way I listen to music,

and the same way I eat my breakfast cereal.

I go jogging like I'm an elastic band,

or some cooked pasta: loose and floppy.

I'll be flailing down the street

and I'll flop right into a stolen car.

The people will call me a hero,

but I'll just tell them I was exercising.

“Exercising your right to be a hero?”

They'll ask, but nope I'm just in spaghetti mode

until death do me part.

So I don't go running very often.

I like a bicycles rigid frame.

It keeps the flop on top, and

the pep in my step

as I zip around and

try to find my center

of gravity.

A Violent Passion

I'm violently passionate about coloring!

And all I want to do is color a banana with a top hat on right now!

But it's okay, I'll wait, I have self control, but I'm going to wait like

I wait for the toast in the morning: VIOLENTLY!

Or like I wait for my coffee to cool down:

ALSO VIOLENTLY!

I'll scald my tongue:

VIOLENTLY!

And then I'll eat my oatmeal:

VIOLENTLY!

And it will be dribbling out the side of my mouth because I just burnt my tongue.

I'll walk to school, with a violent swagger,

and I'll shoot change at the toll booth lady

with a pistol, I'll even go to the movies,

with a coloring book and violently color in the aisles!

Because nobody understands how I feel!

I'm violently passionate about coloring,

and nobody will teach me how to draw,

and that wouldn't be such a bad thing,

but there are only so many coloring books

that showcase bananas wearing top hats.