letter

dear football,

you have curves in all the right places
for a man to grip.
your game is dirty enough to make
a man’s temperature rise
and testosterone peak.
you mix just enough
chasing and roughhousing
with sweet high fives
and encouraging words.

but you are not me.

you will not win me over,
and you will not win over me.

 

what it takes

They were running. Six, maybe seven of them, all running towards my car from the right, waving their arms for attention. I panicked for a split second and cowered in my seat. What do they want? What’s going on? I looked to my left and saw a Budget rental truck.

All of them ran directly past me with an expression of slight annoyance at my car that was in their way. All of them started whistling and hollering at the truck driver. They wanted a job for the day.

The truck driver shook his head and waved them off. Nothing today. I looked to my right to see the last of them slow to a halt, laugh at his own plodding pace, then put his hands in his pockets and posted up on the grass to wait for the next opportunity.

*bbang bbang* you’re dead

a poem.

i just scarfed down the curry bbang
that i was saving for tomorrow morning’s breakfast.
now i have bbang in my belly
that will magically transfer to my face when i wake up.
and i will have no more bbang to eat.
it will all be in my face.
no bbang.
my face.
bbangface.