Be boo, Tubs's love & Hoo ha U
[ poetry - november 04 ]
You know that little voice in your head
which keeps telling you it'll be alright?
I think mine is telling me there's nothing
wrong with mixing gin and pudding.
Of meeting the almost-famous writer
at the Queen Street bistro: I confess,
I feel incredible guilt for calling him
the literary equivalent of mange.
Mange, after all, rhymes with Danny Ainge
and Ainge was a pretty decent ballplayer.
You know when you're down and your friends rally,
saying sounds good but meaning sounds awful?
Who knows how any of those sounds would go?
Maybe it will all turn out for the best -
and I shouldn't say such things about my friends
when I clearly mean acquaintances.
At the height of moose-collision season
I gave my love a green, green rose
A cracker full of partridgeberry jelly
And the legs of my old GI Joes
She was bootyed-up like Betty Rubble
She translated Urkel from the Portuguese
She loved the sound of McSousa
And the clacker of her own freckly knees
So I sailed from the cove to the dingle
From Sweet Tickle to Harbour O' Ti' Taffy
To spend Saint Picky's with my true love
My true love and a spottle of screech
She was a-sparkle and asleep before dinner
High on a narcotic tooth-whitening gel
She dreamed of dancing the length of the island
And selling tin-foil earrings outside a discount hotel
Hoo ha U
In college, I did not hang out.
Content to lock my door and write my bad poems
about innocent men who should be loved,
I made Ted Kaczynski look like Jay Gatsby.
I was not lonely.
At least, that's what I told the girl
I had constructed out of yams and turnips -
I called her "Sweet Jenny-Nell."
When other students were waking to wonder
"does what happened last night make me gay?"
I was waking to big bowls of Trix cereal,
praying the reruns of Urkel would be good.
For romance, I took the only appropriate action:
I would let them line up and take turns.
For friendship, I simply unplugged the phone
and complained when no one would ever call.