Sunshiny Day

It's sunny today
I wish it weren't
but it is
real damn sunny

the sun is being an asshole
going straight through my blinds
laughing through my pillow

I feel hungover
but i'm not
I went to sleep at 10 last night
and 8 the night before

haven't had a drink in a week
all i've done is sleep in
hope for someone to call me back
play video games
swear under my breath

the fucking sun just won't leave me alone
it's a 11 am and can't sleep anymore
wondering whether or not I should get up
and the sun is still out

blindingly gorgeous
photographers are out taking pictures
for college brochures
of all the attractive young people
playing hacky sack and frisbee

I hope they all get skin cancer
and die in the dead of winter in Alaska.

Tough Guy

It was when I almost cried
at the end of Cheaper By the Dozen 2
that I realized
I may not be as tough
as I like to think I am.

Algebra, Satan and Nausea

Kid, get to work!

Out from under a black hood
a wispy mustache stares up at me.
The upper lip looks like a clear-cut after a fires
with burnt out black trees sticking up sparsely.
I want to puke all over his face.

I worship Satan. . . See!
He points to a pentagram bracelet:
I want to puke

all over him,
stain his black clothes
with acidic orange and
chunks of partially digested chicken.
I want to say

--Look KID,
just because you wear
Black Clothes
and don't identify with
the majority of your
classmates--does not mean
you're special or that
you don't have to do
your damn MATH!
Even Satan uses math--DAILY.
Since you claim to worship him
you should emulate him.
You think running HELL
doesn't involve algebra--
Where do you think it came from?

Here is an equation for you:
(You + Your Ugly Mustache) x eternal damnation =
FINE BY ME; if and only if
You finish Your Damn Work!

I worship the devil--he repeats
want to worship him with me?
I want to puke all over him.

Why I Cringe in Seattle

A homeless man is drinking a tall boy
of Hurricane Ice in a downtown alley
while giant cranes build half million dollar condos
for young professionals who pay twenty something
girls with hipster flair to walk their Boston Terriers
past the men in the alley-ways drinking malt liquor.

Lost in Translation

(woot for forced movie references, I'm artsy). So here's a poem that is much more substantive and less goofy. It's a road trip poem. I'm not sure if how I feel about it, so you should give me some feedback.

The sky was clear.
The night was cold.
The stars were bright.

I drove way out to the desert
set up camp in the dark
listening to a family coyotes
hidden in the hills.

To not have a chat with God
seemed silly to me.

I scrambled up to the top of a big rock
lied down on my back
stared up at the stars.

The wind was cold up there,
made my eyes water
but I stayed up there.

Wrapped in my Seahawk blanket
I wondered what to say.

I felt like it should be a special conversation,
1200 miles from home
in the middle of the desert
by myself--seemed like the place God tells people things.

I knew he said things.
I didn't know what he said or
what language he spoke,
but I decided I would listen anyways.

I stayed up on that rock and waited.
There were stars everywhere;
every conceivable place in the sky
there was a star.

They were all doing their thing.
I wondered what it would look like
if they were different,
if God ever made revisions.

It probably wouldn't matter
much
where they went.

Their positions probably
weren't as important
as what they were doing:

being bright
sitting up there
night after night
just doing their thing.

It got down to freezing that night.
I got real cold, climbed down
curled up shivering in my sleeping bag.

The next day I had a head-ache.
I sat on the hood of my car,
watching the sun rise through
the branches of Joshua trees
trying to translate.

Plinko

Hector looked sharp
in navy blue
sailor suit,

his command
for pricing
was not great:

only had three
Plinko chips
out of a possible six,

climbed those stairs
let it drop
from the middle

that chip danced
to the right
to the left

hopped like
a pogo stick
in slow motion

it hovered
then took
the plunge

10,000 dollars.
Drew could hardly
contain himself

he beamed
behind thick
black glasses,

Hector pumped
his fists in the air
jumped up and down.

Second chip,
rocketed to 1000
Hector pumped again.

Third chip
plopped
impotently,

didn't seem
to have the
drive to make it

wanted to
give up
half way,

but the coach's
half-time speech
must have lit a fire

it bobbed
it weeved:
it too danced.

With swagger
the chip fell
10,000 dollars

21,000 dollars
5 minutes
Drew glowed

it was a Wednesday
the district didn't call
I had all day.