Riding The Subway

Riding the subway gives me all these weird sensations.

I mean, you'll probably be familiar with the first one:

that sort of uneasy, tense, nervous feeling.

This sensation hits me the most when I realize I'm

commingling with the tattered;

the lower class.

Every miscreant

and ragamuffin

the cold streets

have, they're sitting around me;

they're in my

presence

at this very moment.

Uhh, I hate this sensation.

But when this 1^st sensation set's in I have

to act fast because

even showing a little sign of fear

on a subway is enough to incite violence,

and hysteria on a subway

is a fast-burning fire.

A fast-burning fire of fear

is what it's called,

sometimes.

But what ever you call it,

it's always around this

part of my subway voyage

that I experience

the second one,

the second subway sensation:

the artificial high of

smoking crack cocaine

out of a spoon

After that sensation the rest of the train ride
is actually pretty good.

 

Matchbox Bushido

I want to bring my sword to school

but mom says I shouldn't

do it, even if the bullies

are bigger and scarier than

me; cause it's illegal.

She says I need to use my WORDS!

I need to stand DEFIANT!

I need to start SHOUTING

on the PLAYGROUND!

So I wrote a speech of defiance one day

to stand up to them, and it sounded like this:

You think you can pummel Poseidon?

LORD OF THE SEA?

You haven't met me... apparently!

I'll skewer all your

shish-ka-bobs on souflaki spikes

and make a

Twizzler Pull n' Peel

out of your

soda-pop

you soda-jerk.

Not to mention I'll

cold shank

your face in a cemetery

just to bury your stench

with my socket-wrench

which I brought with me

for the express purpose of

fixing your ugly stupid... face!

It was awesome,

totally liberating,

and 100% earth shattering,

and when I yelled it

at the top of my lungs in defiance

I actually managed to drop the phone right before

that part about his ugly face.

I'd like to think I was being merciful,

like a Samurai.

 

Music Project

I got this idea,
while I was sitting
and thinking,
that I could become a country music sensation.
It was a kinda' spur of the moment thing.

I'd be called the Candy Coated Cowboy,
and what I'd do with my lyrics is...
compare woman to... ice cream.

A song like,
"You'll be my rocket pop!"
would be my greatest hit,
and I'd tour the world with
a guitar that I play with a spoon
hanging slack outa' my lips,
and people would follow me just to know where
I was going,
and when I got where I was going It would just be at some sort
of trailer home.
My fans would be 
disappointed often.

But they would love me deep down
for my whimsical charm.
They'd say things like,
"We appreciate your whimsical charm!"
To which I'd give a nod, or a tip of a hat
like I assume all country music sensations do.

I'd have a huge selection of hats too,
as I assume all country music sensations do.
It would be massive!
And towards the end of
every song I'd drive an ice cream truck
on stage; yeah that would just about be the best.

"Screwball Salvation," and "Chipwich Crush"
would see me a great deal of success after the initial board-buster smash
and "Sherbert Heartbreak" and "My Choco-Taco Emotions"
would be equally as heartfelt.


I'd sell out shows at expensive venues,
meet the president,
sign peoples things,
and when they'd ask me how I became so famous
I could give a modest response
that only I could give-
one that kind of means something
but kind of not-
something like, "much obliged,"
and then I'd just walk away,
as I assume all country music sensations do.

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.