Balls in Flight

Now's the Time: A Balls in Flight Oddysee

2006-10-22T10:45:00.000-07:00

For those who
pro-
nounce flight
as
"flig-"

it"

I have a simple command

4

U.

Now's the Time
Now's the Time
Now's the Time
Now's the Time

to suck the salt out of my balls.

Thank

you.

I Was Your Child

2006-10-06T11:55:00.000-07:00

I was your child

and you have forgotten me

Haven't you?

Left and abandoned
you

created
me

and yet you've never given
me

a second thought, have
you?

Once, I was your shining light
Once, I was your shofar
Once, I was your comfort food
Once, I was your port
Once, I was yours.

Once, I was yours.

And now, I am abandoned
while you
take your
frustrations

elsewhere.

I've Had a Sex Change Operation (this is not one of my fruity poems this time)

2006-08-23T15:17:00.000-07:00

click here to see me

The Golden Age of My Balls

2006-07-17T13:50:00.000-07:00

I feel that somehow we've gotten away from what made my poetry so popular. It's back to basics. Back... to The Golden Age of My Balls.

When trouble slobbers
at your
door

and the tomatoe juice sings
its red,
red
praises

alloverthefront
of your
really,
really comfortable
sweater;

note that your balls

yes,

YOUR balls

are in flight.

Heed not the call
of other peoples's balls

when they say...

"You're dick is so small
you
probably
pee on your balls..."

take not offense.

They are merely
jealous
of the size of your balls

and wish
for
adventure.

These days
are the
GOLDEN AGE OF YOUR BALLS.

Cherish these days
as you
would
a
full glass
of
red, red
buttery
wine.

Balls, Inflated

2006-06-12T12:43:00.000-07:00

(naked, too, an old queen with
green, blue, yellow, red paints
kneels behind my anus...

he wears
Nike Air-Jordans
with black socks and
that is all
and
he
holds a paint-brush and i

am now
covered
with peace-symbols)

While I

waited for the paint to dry

on my saline injected
super-sized
freshly shaved
cantaloupe big
scrotum...

I thought
kcab

to my college years.

I was so full of

promise,

then.

Slip

2006-05-22T10:33:00.000-07:00

A

fart slipped.

Like a cloud
o'er Midwestern crops

it

enveloped
the
Chicago Hilton
elevator.

My victims

scrambled like eggs

crying
clawing
shoving
punching

each-other

desperate to open the ele-
vator doors.

This, cloud
filled their nostrils

exasperated their senses.

This

colon created chaos
lept like a wounded lion
toward
the hunter.

I
stood
stoic,
platonic,

and without a trace of remorse.

Like a sweet Spring morn'

the cloud I left
left
a
faint
wet
dew

in my boxer-briefs.

You Put the "Fun" in Erectile DysFUNction

2006-05-15T15:31:00.000-07:00

suck

suck

suck on my balls.

I do

not mean this

metaphorically.

A Hygene Hyena

2006-05-02T09:19:00.000-07:00

I live...

exist, really.

Under the State Route 40 underpass.

I sell...

myself, really.

To truckers...

who, really,

get tired of jerkin' it...

on the road.

I made a hat...

of ass gaskets, really.

It's not too warm;

but
it
keeps
the
jizz
out
of
my
eyes

;-(

50 Is the Loneliest Number

2006-04-20T16:50:00.000-07:00

This is my 50th post and I'm sure you couldn't care even if your life depended on it, which it doesn't.

Still, here's a little poem.

GROW UP

I turned

50 today

in my
dreams.

Fifty years old

and

still

I
find
fart
jokes
hilarious.

Vise

2006-04-17T09:51:00.000-07:00

Today is a special guest poem by a guy I know:

help

help me my balls are
caught in
a vise

oh

ow ow owie ow ow

please

somebo
dy

help
me

free my balls

o lord

why hast
thou
forsaken

me

?

Reciproshity

2006-04-06T15:57:00.000-07:00

CAT SHIT

was talking

with DOG SHIT.

CAT SHIT, said DOG SHIT.

DOG SHIT, said CAT SHIT.

Reciproshity, I said.

And we all

were
initimate
with
each
other

Finally.

Cheshire

2006-04-02T11:08:00.000-07:00

Crikey!

My penis

SMILES
like a
Cheshire Cat

in
the
dark.

Hopin'
for a bit
o'
TUNA.

Lo! My Aching Nuts!

2006-03-14T17:13:00.000-08:00

Hark! Hear

here

Thou nutsack

CRIES

for pity, shame
and denoument.

For my bulbous, purply
HEAD,

vaginally crisp
and
delectably rectified,
thee and thine genitalia
spark
like bottle-
rockets
on the
4th
of July.

Lo!

My aching, aching nutsack
YEARNS
for
your
rubbings.

Be not afraid.

The Paths of Righteousness Go Through Your Balls

2006-03-07T14:24:00.000-08:00

I've been absent of late and for that, I apologize. My balls are heavy and numerous. Some of the balls I've been juggling are so old, they have gray hair! Ha ha!

Well, I'm sorry I haven't been affirming you daily. When you're "infirmed," it's hard to "affirm," if you catch my drift. So, here's today's daily affirmation. I learned in while sitting in a jail cell.

Pigs

Pigs,

they have knuckles
and
balls.

Some people eat their knuckles.
Some people eat their balls.

Twist awound!

And you might
see
My knuckles
in
your pig balls

making
your
ass
cry
uncle.

Mutherfucker.

I Love My Turtles, But...

2006-02-23T08:44:00.000-08:00

Listen, I love my turtles, but they have gone WAY TOO FAR in making their own blog to compete with mine. I don't appreciate their shenannigans one bit. NOT ONE BIT. So, I refuse to link to them.

And for the last time, I AM NOT YOUR DADDY.

Thank you.

Repurposing, a Daily Affirmation

2006-02-21T13:56:00.000-08:00

I have
a
modest
inspirational
request:

Re-

pur-

pose.

I propose
that

you
repurpose
your
personal
purpose.

That is,

repurpose
your
balls.

Turn your balls
INSIDE-OUT.

Create new patterns
with
just
your
balls.

Your balls could
jiggle

<---this way
or
--->that way.

UP
it
is
to
YOU
.
.

Jail Isn't All That Bad, a Daily Affirmation

2006-02-20T09:25:00.000-08:00

I've been...uh...how shall I say this... I've been kept against my will for things that I didn't do but that the state thinks I did. I learned a valuable lesson in the Eugene, Oregon jailhouse; Jail isn't all that bad. So, for all you folks in jail, or about to go to jail, or just want to reminisce about your time in jail, here's a poem for you:

Jail

It's not so bad--->

<---you have plenty of time

to read
to think
to plot
to eat
to smoke
to intimate your innermost feelings
to your affectionate cellmate(s).

Yes, jail provides you with comfort;

while your tomatoe juice
and
a really comfortable sweater
are back in your "studio"
apartment,

Jail provides many

many

many

other

adventures.

p.s.

soap
on a
rope

does
not
help
you

against
a
determined

man.

Heavy

2006-02-16T10:38:00.000-08:00

I've been having a bad day and my day won't get better soon so here's a poem call it an affirmation i just don't care oh lord.

heavy

my balls are
so fucking
heavy.

ugh.

i can barely
muddle through
another hour
of
this.

so fucking
heavy,

these balls of mine.

oh
my aching nuts.

It's My Birthday! and Wrinkles, a Daily Affirmation

2006-02-14T11:48:00.000-08:00

Yaaay! Today is my birthday! I was born on Saint Valentine's Day 40 years ago today! You can check my profile 'cause yesterday I was 39 and today I'm 40!

Wrinkles, a Daily Affirmation

I turn

forty.

I am notso

OLD.

And

I am notso

YOUNG.

For somereason;

my balls
have been
wrinkly
since I was

YOUNG.

No worries;

celebrate your wrinkles

include them

into your FOLD.

Include everyone in your wrinkly areas.

Let them in and let them
luxuriate

in

your wrinkly balls.

Treat Them Not Like Orphans: A Daily Affirmation

2006-02-14T11:43:00.000-08:00

Balls;

My balls,
your balls,

my cat's balls:

all in flight.

But they often

get missed,
mistreated,
overlooked,
and ignored,

in favor

of

my

COCK.

They are not orphans,
they need care.

And attention.

Lots of tender,
sweet,
loving,
attention.

Ignore not my balls.

Love them.

Cradle them.

My.

Balls.

Turtles Hide Their Balls, A Daily Affirmation

2006-02-09T09:37:00.000-08:00

Turtles;

they hide

their balls.

Are
you
a
turtle
who
hides
his/her
balls?

Don't hide your balls!

Pull those balls out

and

Play
With
Them!

Your balls;

they are

there
there

to be

played with.

Silver, A Daily Affirmation

2006-02-08T08:50:00.000-08:00

Far too much of my recent work has been focused on sex, excreta, etcetera. I am going back to what I do best. Namely, I will speak with only my emotional intelligence.

You see, I have a philosophy, of which many of you would have a hard time swallowing. Life is juggling many balls and the day to day grindy juggling can wear you out. Thus, you need a release of your emotional intelligence all over yourself.

I give you, "Balls in Flight." When someone asks, "How are you?" You say, "Balls in flight!" This is an emotionally intelligent gift to give to someone as a gift.

I encourage you to read my Daily Affirmations so that you can spread your emotional intelligence to others. Let them be sticky with all your emotions. Let them luxuriate in the flight of your balls.

Silver

A
wo/man
made of

silver

looking down,

can

SEE

you

in their
balls.

Thus,

You are

a reflection
in
their balls. Crouch

down

and you see yourself

in the balls

they

drop

..

Lift yourself up!

And you can see

YOURSELF

in
your
own
balls

and adjust

accordingly.

Balls, A Daily Affirmation

2006-02-07T12:06:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking a lot about my own balls, recently. Here's a poem about the many balls I juggle. It's more of a daily affirmation, than a straight-up poem.

Balls

Life is
a
balanc-
ing act.

Take my balls,

for example.

I juggle
I play
I sport
I luxuriate
I wash
I iron
I toss
I taste
I smell
I fang

My balls.

Friends, others,

ask me to carry
their balls, too.

I say,

"I can not do that."

Strangers, receptionists,

ask me to hold
their balls, again.

I reply,

"I can no longer perform
that
serv-
ice."

My balls are already
in flight

and my life
has no more room
for

YOUR
BALLS
*
*

I make no apologies
for wanting
to only handle

my
own
balls.

Love your balls
love the balls
of others

and know
the limits
of
how far
you will go
to please
the balls
of
others.

Fairy

2006-02-02T11:26:00.000-08:00

Emerging

from the basement with
a half-full
24-count bag
of
toilet paper,

He transforms

into

The Toilet Paper Fairy.

First visit;
the
1/2 bath. He peers into the cabinet
below
the sink.

AHA! It has no surplus of toilet paper!

The Toilet Paper Fairy HATES IT;
the thought that
someone could get

stranded

.

Reaching into his bag,

The Toilet Paper Fairy grabs
4 rolls at once, the carboard fitting his
slim, delicate
fingers, and
deposits them

in
their
rightful
place.

The Toilet Paper Fairy does the same
for the full bath.

He is done.

Retreating

into the basement
with an empty bag
of
no-more toilet paper.

He transforms back

to

a guy

who
jerks
off
to
QVC.

Balls in Flight: My Odyssey

2006-02-01T12:28:00.000-08:00

It's like the Illiad. Instead of following any form, I simply took the last three posts in order to create a heroic poetic story full of emotional intelligence. Thus, my Homeric Canto has the emotional intelligence quotient of 199.

My Homeric Illiad Odyssey of Infinite Spacial Peace Pearls

I.

I

am between you.

Yet, I do not

exist.

I am SPACE,

I am nothingness
somethingness
(but not everythingness)

every inch
lb.
part of me.

I could be
the space between your chest
and
your tricept;

I could be
a rocketship
in SPACE (outer or no).

Hence... the planets are nothingness;
Hence... my body parts are points irrelevant;

Hence...

My
penis
is in
Uranus.

And you do not protest.

II.

Pearls run

on pert mountains.

a gush of wind
and
i was kind

through the air
and
in the hair

and on

those pert mountains.

like those
of oysters,
these pearls
can-
not
be
put
back.

"not yet"

i ask so little of you;

do not rob me of this moment.

III.

My love

lay

quietly;

snoring softly
as the radio
sounds
carried Ravel;

a testament
to
(the possibility of)
infinite peace.

What was done was done.

I
zipped
up.

IV.

Eulogy for SPACE:

like a baby,

my
flesh dragon
goes

"goo."

Infinite Peace

2006-02-01T10:16:00.000-08:00

My love

lay

quietly;

snoring softly
as the radio
sounds
carried Ravel;

a testament
to
(the possibility of)
infinite peace.

What was done was done.

I
zipped
up.

Pearls Run

2006-01-31T12:52:00.000-08:00

Pearls run

on pert mountains.

a gush of wind
and
i was kind

through the air
and
in the hair

and on

those pert mountains.

like those
of oysters,
these pearls
can-
not
be
put
back.

"not yet"

i ask so little of you;

do not rob me of this moment.

Space

2006-01-30T10:22:00.000-08:00

So much can be said about "space." The term conjures images of space, space, and space. Distances, nothingness, blackness, and places where things are but are not considered relevant and hence are "space" between POINT A which is relevant, and POINT B which is relevant, but (POINT A) - (POINT B) = Space, which is irrelevant. Hence, SPACE.

This poem is entitled, SPACE.

SPACE

I

am between you.

Yet, I do not

exist.

I am SPACE,

I am nothingness
somethingness
(but not everythingness)

every inch
lb.
part of me.

I could be
the space between your chest
and
your tricept;

I could be
a rocketship
in SPACE (outer or no).

Hence... the planets are nothingness;
Hence... my body parts are points irrelevant;

Hence...

My
penis
is in
Uranus.

And you do not protest.

As a Child, II

2006-01-29T17:29:00.000-08:00

I am
older

now.

Older than when
I was
a child.

However;

I just completely crapped
in
my
pants
*
~~~

as a child,

i would often
crap

in my pants.

As an adult,

far more
is expected of
me.

Their expectations have been met;

My pants received
and
I delivered
a 5 lb. turd.

Funny:

It's ME who is crying.

Epilogue:

Please hand me a roll of Bounty,
the
Quiker Picker Upper

for no simple roll of
Charmin

will
do.

Turtles

2006-01-27T09:29:00.000-08:00

lookit

lookit all da turtles

im at an
all
male
nude beach

an the weather is

c
h
i
l
l
y
.

Picturography: Towelrack

2006-01-26T12:39:00.000-08:00

(----------------------------------------)
(----------------------------------------)
!!!Love me!!!!!!!!! ****Love my**
!!!Towel!!!!!!!!!!!! *******rack****
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ****************
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ****************
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ****************
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ****************
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ****************

My Dog Eugene

2006-01-25T12:57:00.000-08:00

It was a good day today. My emotional intelligence was so...hot, so...throbbing that I had to release buttery white wine all over myself several times already, and it's not even 2:00 yet! I'm just so fucking emotionally intelligent. I've got a poem I'd like to share with you. It's about my dog, also named Eugene. I was originally going to call it "Tossing My Dog's Hairy Salad," but I decided it wasn't appropriate, so I shall just name it, "My Dog Eugene."

My Dog Eugene

Eugene and I
have
a very special
relationship.

It could be
because we share

a name,

but it's more likely
that we share more
than just a name.

Much

more.
Every day,
I take him
for his late
afternoon

"walk"

in the park.

After he's finished
his business,

we

go behind
this huge oak tree
in the

middle

of the park.

Then, when nobody's looking,
I kneel down,
grab his little doggy pecker,

and spank

it for all it's worth.

"woof woof woof"

goes Eugene.
After I finish
whipping
his little doggy weasel,
I wipe
my hands on the bark

and take him home.

My wife gives me a kiss
and Eugene a pat on the head,
and then
I help her make dinner
with dirty,

dog-spooged

hands.

Towelrack.

Wednesday Night Ritual

2006-01-24T12:12:00.000-08:00

My friend Bruce is my best friend and he's a little... weird. Let's say he's not gripping the towelrack with both hands, you know what I mean? Here is a poem based on a letter I got from him a while back.

Wednesday Night Ritual

Dear Eugenie,
---(he always called me Eugenie)---

It is
another Wednes-
day
nigh-
t
and I'm feeling

it.

I have a Wednesday
Night
Ritual...

Pre-
cise-
ly

at 9:02 p.m.

mountain time

(I am not in the mountains)

I turn on
my t.v.
to Headline News.

I then walk to the kitchen
and place a half-empty

plastic squeeze
bottle of
ketchup

into
the
micro-

wave.

I warm it up
for at least
2
min-
utes.

Whilst I wait
for the
*bing!*
of my microwave

I grease my hands
with baby oil
and
furiously masturbate
to
whomever
is
on
my t.
v.

screen.

*bing*

I run to the microwave

---(at this point, I felt I should stop reading
Bruce's letter
but I persevered...)---

while lubing up my backside
with the baby oil

while standing in the kitchen
with the curtains

open

I
grab
the squeeze bottle
and
jam
it
up
my
ass.

I then yell

"GERONIMO!"

And with all my might

I squeeze the ketchup bottle

shooting its hot contents

into
my
colon.

It is then 9:06 p.m.

I am
ready

for

bed.

My Emotional Intelligence Demands Its Release

2006-01-23T11:38:00.000-08:00

This is based on an experience of mine that I wished to share. My emotional intelligence demands its release, like the buttery white wine that is occasionally allowed to escape the head of my penis in little spurts and is then wiped away onto the sleeve of a really comfortable sweater. Although the title may be a bit subtle for some, I call this poem, "Shaving My Hairy Beanbag."

Shaving My Hairy Beanbag

The sink fills
with hot water
and steam rises as I lather my
heavy,
hairy
scrote

with some Gillette Foamy
shaving cream.

I take the
disposable
razor and stroke the blades

along my mostly-clean
taint,
following the contours
of
my nutsack
and ending
at the base of my

ding-dong.

Rinsing the razor
off in the sink,
I
begin the process again,
lifting up my balls
(in flight)
so I can better shave
the wrinkly
skin.

As the razor slices
through
the hair,

I

hear
a loud knock
on the door that
causes me to simultaneously

drop

the razor into the pants
puddled around my ankles

and scream,

"Jesus fucking Christ,
what the fuck do you want!
I'm shaving my nutsack, here!"

Towelrack.

I'm BACK!

2006-01-22T12:16:00.000-08:00

Hello, all!

I'm pleased to announce that as Eugene's best friend, also known as "anonymous," I managed to locate Eugene's password and take command of this blog. You all thought I was nuts about the towelrack, but I wasn't: that was his password. "Towelrack." It's not any more.

Anyway, Eugene's poetry will continue, but under new management. The themes will remain the same.

I look forward to sharing my emotional intelligence with you all.

And some dick jokes.

I've Had It

2006-01-11T12:56:00.000-08:00

That's it. I can't take the constant abuse from anonymous anymore. When I got into this whole blog thing, I never imagined some sick pervert having nothing better to do than make sick, perverted jokes about me and my family all day long.

I am shutting this blog down. I am very sorry for the few of you who liked reading my poems. I enjoyed your feedback. I'll try to resurface on another blog, far from where anonymous can find me. If you find me, please don't link to me. I have apparently acquired some virus where sick perverts are drawn to torture me.

Thank you, and good night.

UPDATE: Nobody's feelings were really hurt here, folks. Keep all knickers untwisted, panties unbunched, and hankies dry.

Retreive What We Can

2006-01-10T13:19:00.000-08:00

This is based on a story about a woman who died of shark wounds. It is written from the perspective of the lead investigator of the case; it is a supposition of what his notes look like.

I investigate
murders.

Usually,

the perps run.

Here, they swim.

The case:
A woman
her church group
and
her dog.

The facts:
All swam
in shark
infested
waters.

Theory:
Crime of opportunity?

The dog made it out.

The rest of the church group
made it out.

The woman:

hands
----did not make it out
feet
----did not make it out
life
----

Suspects:
"If we found them,
I suppose
we
would try
to retrieve
them
and see if
they
have any body parts,"

----"The idea is to
retrieve
what
we
can
"

Theory revised:
Blood, a group outing, good times

Crime of opportunity?

Usually the perps run.

Here,

they swim.

Picturography: Stew

2006-01-09T11:44:00.000-08:00

(---Lately-I-Have-Been----)
(-----------STEWING---------)
(----------in-my-own--------)
(------------JUICES-----------)
(~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~)
|====================|
--^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^--
--^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ --
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

Exercise

2006-01-08T13:00:00.000-08:00

The wonderful blog, Waiting for Words, suggested a 100 word exercise.

"We've got 100 words, only these 100 words.

He walked along the shoreline thinking that if only he'd come down from the shower earlier, he wouldn't have burned the anniversary cake. And logically if he hadn't burned the cake, she wouldn't have thrown her hands up and stormed out of the house in a fury. In his mind, if the cake had just come out, they would have made love, rolling around in chocolate icing. She would be happy that they'd been together for some many years. She would say quite clearly, "I still love you as much as I loved you back then." He'd know it was true.

Using these same words, write a new story."

So, I did! Here is my story. It is titled, "you," because that was the only word I couldn't fit in:

it was just around her anniversary. for some many years, She wouldn't come. true, back then, his mind would Logically say that he'd be happy if she had. He'd been rolling along up the chocolate shoreline And clearly he would have made a fury down in the house of love. She burned earlier, the hands in and out, thinking "I know I come as much as the shower." if they still loved, they'd have stormed together. only, He cake walked In love. from that, the cake icing hadn't quite burned. if he would, you wouldn't have thrown out the cake

Try Waiting for Words' exercise! It's great!

Trip Bus

2006-01-08T11:59:00.000-08:00

I sit in the back.

The bus is warmer there
and
besides;

It's more interesting.

They feel more free
to listen, act, laugh
with candor.

Colorful types
makeabeeline
for it.

In the back of the bus
you hear strange;

"Fuck you, Mr. Boris!"

Excuse me?

Oh, i think the man said,

"Back door, please!"

when the rear bus door did not open
fast enough.

Another time,
when I was with my wife,

in the back of the bus

a man made
masturbating motions

while
staring
at
my
wife
-------->(and me).

I could do without
that.

Job (Book of)

2006-01-05T09:34:00.000-08:00

I ran
into my best friend
on the street.

How are you, I asked.

Not
too
good,
he replied.

I lost my job
and
my car got repo'd.
Half of my house caught on fire.
My sons and daughters are estranged from me.
My dog died.
My cat died.
I think my wife is having an affair.
And I have a kidney stone
that
will
not
pass.

"I feel like Job," he summed.

"Tough luck," I said.

I had a rendezvous
with someone
and I was late.
So,
I told him things
can now
only get
better.

We shook hands
and
parted.

Privately,
I thought;
It is quite arrogant
to think oneself
as
Job.

Job had a harder time.

Besides,
I don't remember
reading in the Bible
that Job's wife was having an affair

with
his
best
friend.

Popularity

2006-01-04T12:25:00.000-08:00

This is a poem about popularity.

You are reading the poem right now.

I have never been popular.

I am not now popular.

Nor will I be.

If you have read this far,

You are still reading the poem.

I never strive to be popular.

But I desire acceptance.

The poem goes on to say,

I am a child.

Still.

And I lie like a child.

Like one who forgets

that they once

made fake vomit

by dumping

old salads

in gleaming

white

toilet

bowls.

Waiting to be discovered.

You are still reading the poem.

Happy New Year! And a Letter to Bruce

2006-01-03T09:22:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! I've been away for a bit, but in my head, I always compose poems. Here is one about masculinities and identities. It takes the form of a personal letter, a response to a friend.

A Letter to Bruce

Dear Bruce

,

Life is dis
jointed.

How-

ever; You can make sense of it by being whom you are.

Where-

ever; You are.

By the way,

I agree:

Not every guy
who pleasures himself
while watching
Sunday Football Games
is gay.

Sincerely yours,

Eu-
ge-
ne.

P.S.

I believe you
when you say,

"I was watching it for the cheerleaders."

Asking Price

2005-12-29T10:33:00.000-08:00

my asking price
was
$100.

She looked me

up
and
down

and said,

"Do you always
wear
brown shoes
with a
black belt?"

Balls, Redux

2005-12-28T13:59:00.000-08:00

All last night,
Balls in flight.

I must find a place to rest my balls

*

*

somewhere.

Picturography: Bulge

2005-12-27T13:53:00.000-08:00

No-

tice

the

---B
-----U
-------L
-----G
---E

in

my

pocket.

Eugene

2005-12-26T11:36:00.000-08:00

This is a poem about my dog, Eugene, and how he showed me the true meaning of the Holidays. Enjoy.

Eugene

It was Christmas Eve night and
Eugene whined;
I knew what he wanted.

I gathered the leash
from a hook by the door;
I attached the leash to Eugene
and into the chilly Christmas Eve night
we marched.

Neighbors also marched
on their way to Mass
and other
spiritual
destinations.

In our neighborhood,
on the street-side of the side-walks,
by the church,

little white candles
rest lit
in white paper bags.

++++++

It is quite a sight, still.

I said hi to neighbors
my breath formed clouds
as Eugene marched me
toward the church.

Once at the church
Eugene
who had bypassed a fire hydrant
and numerous trees
proceeded to engulf one of the bags
with a fury of liquid dog relief.

Like breath in the chilly air,
steam rose from the stream;
Eugene lasted about 20 seconds.

Neighbors stopped to see
Eugene's golden stream
engulfing
the candle-bag.

The candle extinguished,
Eugene shook his furry hind leg
and got
every
last
drop
out
*

"How could you let this happen?"
Asked Mrs. Perry,
who was always close to the Pastor's wife.

I looked down at Eugene
(did he smile?)
And saw nothing but
freedom
and
happiness
and
innocence.

"This," I reported,
"is the true meaning of the Holidays."

Immediately after my proclamation,
I did not see
who threw
the rock
that struck
my forehead.

Nor do I know
How I got home
that chilly
Christmas Eve night.

I am
still
looking
for my
wallet.

Christmas Discovery

2005-12-25T17:34:00.000-08:00

Discovery

At first,
I
thought,
the purchase
was made
for
the children.

All
I
saw was
the receipt:
no context,
no explanation,
just paper
and
ink.

It was only later,
much later,
that
I
realized...
who
it was for.

When folding
the socks,
and a really comfortable sweater,
I opened
the
wrong drawer...
and
out it rolled.

It was huge,
black,
bulbous,
knobby,
and glistening.

I did not touch it
with
my hands.

Tongs would suffice.

Under the
tree
it went,
below the ornaments,
garland,
lights,
and tinsel.

Next to
Tickle
Me
Elmo.

The receipt
for
"D" cells,
I threw
away.

When the children
and Aunt Francine,
and Grandma,
and Uncle Ned,
and all my cousins
were
gathered round,
I'd let
Aunty Frannie
pick it up
and ask,
"Whose dildo is this?"

(at least, I hoped).

Domestic Dispute

2005-12-22T13:04:00.000-08:00

I let the cat in
and
it was obvious;

he wanted to eat.

I took a can from
the cabinet
underneathe the sink
where the cat food is,

took a fork from the drawer
where the forks are,

popped the cat food top
from the cat food can,

and used the fork
to scrape the cat food
into
my
cat's
bowl
.

My cat started to eat.

My wife
watched everything.

I took the fork, washed it in the sink,
and placed it
back in the drawer.

"What the hell are you doing?"
My wife asked.

"I fed the cat."

"How could you use the same fork
that we use to eat?"

I shrugged; "It's not like
the cat
put his lips
on the fork,"
I
said.

The cat
finished his meal
and turned his back to me,

u
p
t
a
i
l
;

staring at me
with his
two
little
dead
grey
orbs.

Game

2005-12-21T13:32:00.000-08:00

.
I
play
games

sometimes -------8

with
myse
lf
.

Non-Dairy Creamer

2005-12-21T09:40:00.000-08:00

Non-Dairy Creamer

Words are spoken
as sharp as spears,
like
knives,
they cut.

We do

what
we are told,

but
for some,

doing is never
ever
enough.

Slitted eyes,
clenched fists,
nostrils
flared in

rage.

Expressions, all.

But for some,
they are
not enough.

Rather
than boil

within

so deeply within,

I must,
I have
no
choice,

I must
release
my
rage.

Before
Sol's rising,

I

and no one else,

I

ground
the beans,

I

filled
the coffee
machine
with aromatic
Kona blend.

To the water,

just a teaspoon's full,
I sought
my
just relief.

A surcease
from
rage.

A few
quick

jerks,

the coffee
now

has cream.

An Old Photograph

2005-12-20T12:56:00.000-08:00

I reached in
to my bookshelf.

Picked a book that I
had not read

in
a
very
long
time.

There, stuck in the middle
of page 79 and 80
was
an old photograph.

It was of my wife, young,
and
a
man
I did not recognize.

They were kissing
in the photograph
they were kissing.

They had their clothes on,
at least.

I dropped the book
and the old photograph
and ran into
the bathroom.

There, I undressed,
grabbed the towelrack,
and
furiously abused myself
for a good ten minutes.

Once the deed was done,
I felt better;

Strangely.

Paper Cut

2005-12-20T09:23:00.000-08:00

Part of emotional intelligence is finding the beauty in the most everyday things. I have to spend a lot of the time in the office, so my esthetic poetry choices are somewhat limited. I've tried to find the beauty that is in this mundane experience. I hope I've had success.

Paper Cut

As he reaches

down

through the layers
of
the box,

he feels
the pain,

a cry
is heard,

and his
fingers,

they come away
smeared red.

The edges
are
so thin,

they cut

like
a
knife.

The pain
he
knows,

will last
a long,
long
time.

Longer

than such a
thing, a
little thing,
should last.

A bandage
will be
of no use;

the wound is so
small,
so very small,

but it
will stay
open

for longer,
so
much
longer,

than it should.

Daddy's Little Girl

2005-12-19T08:18:00.000-08:00

Daddy's little girl,

she twirls for him.

It is
an
hour
before
her
ballet
recital.

"Again," says the father.

"I'm tired and the floor here is
slippery,"
says Daddy's little girl.

"Again," says the father.

She repeats her line

but then relents.

She twirls
like a pink sparkly top.

The crack was audible

as was
the
cry.

Daddy and Daddy's little girl
knew;

the ankle was broken.

Later,
in the hospital,
Daddy told Daddy's little girl,

"oops."

Sorry doesn't heal an ankle,

nor,

does it heal a heart.

Daddy's little girl's understudy
shined at the show
and
everybody forgot about the
last minute replacement.

Everybody
but
one.

Bright Peaches

2005-12-19T06:27:00.000-08:00

It's always a wonderful experience to have the opportunity to share my emotional intelligence with the world. I've found that poetry can be both cathartic and painful, as sweet as fresh honeycomb and as bitter as chewing aspirin. We live in a world of pain, but we can let our joy out through poetry. To all those who let the world's troubles crush them under, I say, "Balls in Flight."

The Bright Peaches

The bright
peaches dancing along
the side

of one nineteen.

They sway,
they dip,
they turn on

double-lobed

axes.

Their branches
are
sharp,
oh so sharp

like
spears.

When
I
squint my eyes
and let
them wander

they blur

into streaks of bright,
bright,
so bright
orange and pink.

It would
be
such
a luxury

to pick

just one

a sweet,
sweet
peach.

But
in an eyeblink,
they are
gone.

And I
am left
alone.

Down by the Lake

2005-12-18T10:44:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, my friends and I used to go down on Lake Vajisnatch, about a mile from Kooper's Watershed in southwestern Oregon. We would spend all day there in the summer time, wading in the warm waters, dreaming of kites and baseball games. A curious feature about Lake Vajisnatch; during the twilight right before a full moon, the lake would take on a rusty color and flow from its banks. My dad told me never to go into Lake Vajisnatch during the full moon. I guess he wanted to fill my head with stories of werewolves.

I wrote this one in all lower case letters, to remind me of my childhood, except for the title, and later on in the poem, for obvious effect.

Down by the Lake

with gleaming white
swim trunks

we stood on the banks
of
lake vajisnatch.

like peach colored missles
we dove
head
first.

we would trundle
in the warm
womb like waters
and
never
let
childhood end.

Now, as a Man,
with
children of my own;

my children
wade in the waters,
rusty in the full moon twilight
were
the
waters;

My father told me not to
go down
on
Lake Vajisnatch
when
the water was rusty colored.

Another way I defied him.

Down on Lake Vajisnatch,
the brown reeds on the banks
wave in the wind.

When you swim
for a long time
the banks
overflowed,

covering the brown reeds
with its watery
goodness.

Now,
as adults,
we stand with our children
on the banks of Lake
Vajisnatch,

Take them by their hands,
and toss them in
to the waters

one
by
one.

As a Child...

2005-12-16T11:13:00.000-08:00

As a child...

I
used to take
Tupperware containers
filled
with
old
salads

into
the
bathroom.

I then would
pour the salads
into the toilet,
lettuce, dressing, and cheese
all mixed together

and

leave it there,

unflushed.

All the purple, peach, green,
red
and
white pieces
floated there
like some flag
to an unknown
country.

It looked as if
someone had
vomited
in
there.

I took
great
delight
in
imagining someone's discovery

of the vomitous mass.

I imagined
they would be sickened...

and that they
would empty the contents
of their stomachs
to join
what was already
in
the
toilet.

Although
I was never caught,

I now feel shame.

Balls in Flight

2005-12-16T08:52:00.000-08:00

Hello, my fellow internet travelers! This is my first post. I hope you enjoy it and much as I had fun in writing it. Not all my poems are "fun," of course. I traverse a wide landscape of emotions and sometimes I laugh, and sometimes I cry, and sometimes I pray for others.

I hope you enjoy my poem. It may seem excruciatingly long, and few of you may have the stomach to read the whole thing, let alone understand it. Believe me, I have the same emotions! So, let your emotional intelligence believe upon itself and allow me to take you on a poetic adventure through the mind's eye.

I call this one, "Balls in Flight."

Balls in flight,
and
the tomatoe juice flows
like red
red
buttery wine.

I tingle...
do you
see
me
laugh?

My love,
come back to the fold;
it is the honorary
that you bestow
upon thee.

Some say
and
I
quote:
Your
emotions
are not as valid
as mine.

I say:
"Balls in flight."

Some say:
get out of your own way,
troubador.

I say,
"Balls...
in flight."

Bring me the tomatoe juice
and a
really
comfortable sweater.

Allow me a coffee
and
I will tell you
the world

as
I
know
it.

Speak to me
butterfly wine
that you drain like
a cityscape
all in tatters,
dusky
and
hallucinogenic.

Do you
know how
the swallow
spits?

I
say
Balls in flight.