Please excuse the comma splices, tense changes, verbosity, etc. I was just a youngin' and now I realize the error of my grammatical ways. Plus, I preferred the flowery and descriptive writing styles of the early 19th century and beyond rather than the short, journalistic post-Hemingway-style of writing. I love intense imagery and descriptions in general. Still deciding whether I should edit my old poetry for grammar mistakes or take the Beatnik approach and fuck it.

Disclaimer: I only wrote/write on bad days. Grand days have never inspired me enough to write as I've always used writing as an outlet. A majority of my poetry is angsty, dark humored, or depressing, however, I don't have depression, and I'm not self-destructive or suicidal by any means. My writing is mostly a tenfold representation of the kind of day I was having at the time. Embellishing the realities of my bad days on paper helped turn them into good days. Not sticking my head into an oven anytime soon (or ever, actually). :P +10 points if you got the reference.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to comment

Monday, March 23, 2009

First-Time Flyer

I came back from my mother-in-law's house today,
She screamed at me in a strange Nordic language,
As if I could understand her,
After I messed around with her custom-made alpine skiis.

I did,
But I acted like I had no clue,
What this angry, tense lady was saying,
As I packed my suitcase,
Filling it with crap I didn't need.

Bottles of dried up aloe vera that smelled like Crest toothpaste,
10-year old jugs of Jamaican rum filled with sand,
Okay, hold the rum,
Just sand,
For some reason,
A broken umberella that looked like Tim Burton's rendition of Mary Poppins,
And a plastered smile.

I got to the airport,
Anxious about my relations with my mother-in-law,
After all,
The woman's face looked like a safety-recalled Coach purse.

Well, I approached airport security,
"Take your shoes off, ma'am," they tell me,
Surely, they must be insinuating something.

Now, don't take this the wrong way,
I love guys,
But I'm not the type of girl who likes to roam around.

I went berserk on the security guard,
"Well, I've never!"
I yelled,
As I hit him with my Fuicci knock-off.

I got my Fuicci from a street peddler in the Bronx.
Hey, if no one knows,
What's the harm?


I lost the battle of Fuicci vs. truncheon.

Despite what they show in Cops,
Tasers hurt,
I now have burn marks,
End of story.

Come to think of it,
Cops wear Axe,
Axe smells bad.

Anyways, they let me go after I plead insanity,
Told them the crazy Russian guy from Seinfeld forced me to do it,
Payback for not letting me have free cable.

I stomped off in my Scandinavian Dalmatian-spotted tube socks,
Not a care in the world,
Just want my damn shoes they made me take off,
Only take-off I want right now involves a plane and a runway.

I looked over past the security checkpoint,
And saw a man dawning drag,
No shoes,
Yellow nylons that appeared to suffer from jaundice,
either that or the feelings between him and coffee are not mutual.

I then ran off to catch my flight,
Hopefully, the pilot isn't high off of airplane fumes,
There was this one time in Houston...

Copyright © 2009

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