"Stand-Up Comedian"

It’s been said that some people have talent to burn.
Phil the stand-up comedian had no such problem.
But he was acutely aware of his limitations,
And he took the necessary steps to compensate.
He noticed that none of the comedians
Who had inspired him to enter the profession
Made him laugh the way they used to.
It was as if they had run out of laughs.
And these were Phil’s comedy idols,
People he would never dream of comparing himself to.
He grew concerned that his own laugh supply
Was approaching exhaustion.
If the comics he loved were no longer funny,
Where did that leave him?
Each laugh he got on stage produced anxiety
That his tank was that much closer to empty.
And he feared that logically-speaking, the harder
Louder laughs would simply speed up the process.
Phil began avoiding social situations based on the theory
That the inevitable opportunities to make jokes
Would be irresistible, thus guaranteeing
The further depletion of his swiftly dwindling stock.
He cut off ties with friends and family members,
Among whom he had always been the funny one,
And sought new friends, the kind who wouldn’t
Like his jokes, but this proved more difficult
Than he had ever imagined it would be.
These new people simply enjoyed
A different brand of humor, and Phil found himself
Adjusting to please the new crowd, which left him feeling
Deeply conflicted and increasingly depressed.
The pleasure he had once derived from his job was gone.
The faces in the crowd - had become
The faces of friends - had become the faces in the crowd.
And he realized that he had been right all along.
He was no longer funny.  All of his laughs were gone.

“To the Person Who Dog-Eared All of Those Pages in the Poetry Book I Borrowed from the Library”

For the first 50,
You marked more pages
Than you did not.
I counted.

But where did you go
Between pages 50 and 74?
Not a single dog-ear.
It's really a shame.
You missed that incredible poem
About the man so lonely
He screams at his fish.

You returned with a vengeance
On page 75 with a highlighter,
Painting the page your psychotic yellow.
Allow me to make a suggestion:
If everything is important
Nothing is important.

Bill Dubin

Bill Dubin was a voracious reader of books
Who believed very little of what he read
Which is not to say that he didn’t believe in anything.
He had a powerful belief in man’s ability
To make nearly identical mistakes again and again
Without learning very much at all in the process.
Bill had taken up writing autobiographical poetry,
Which he revised painstakingly on a laptop computer
At the Rainy Day Cafe near his apartment.
It was certainly an interesting thing to be doing
For someone who doubted most of what he read.
Editing sessions tended to amount to little more
Than extended exercises in self-mockery
That escalated in their ferocity with each reread.
Regular customers at the Rainy Day
Had long ago grown used to Bill’s habit of
Throwing his head way back in sarcastic laughter
At how distinctly void of invention
He consistently judged his own work to be.
Day after day he returned to the cafe,
Writing as if somewhere out there was a turn of phrase
That would, like a golden ticket
Just turn his life around.

"To Do List"

1. Dental appt. 4:30
2. Clean toilet
3. Ignore petty foolishness
4. Eggs, milk, bread
5. Laugh in the face of adversity
6. Pay bills
7. Oil change
8. Remember to breathe

"Ducks"

People imagine that ducks
Living on public park ponds
Have grown to accept
The presence of humans
Because they waddle
So unabashedly close
Jostling for position
After the next tossed
Handful of bread crumbs,
And it’s easy to believe
On a lazy summer afternoon.
But watch those ducks on the outskirts
Who remain unsatiated.
Perhaps they arrived late
Or were simply boxed out
When the feeding frenzy began.
Look closely next time
As the last crumb falls.
Most of those ducks will
Race back to the water
When the food is gone
Like the pistol was just fired
At the start of the Ironman Triathlon,
But a few of them will linger
Looking angry enough to fight.

"The Apartment Building of Lost Souls"

Part 4

Helen Willis hurries up the stairs
To her third floor apartment,
Propelled by a nearly palpable fear
Of encountering one of her neighbors in passing
As they retrieve mail or shuffle toward the laundry room.
As she rounds the corner of the second landing,
The sound of a first floor apartment door clicking open
Makes her heart briefly flutter with anxiety
Like a tiny pet bird flapping against the inside of its cage.
Once inside, she sits heavily in the nearest chair,
Gazing absent-mindedly at the ceramic statuettes
Gathered on the shelf above her faux-fireplace
And begins the business of catching her breath.
She dusts the figurines with clockwork regularity,
Often at the expense of other household chores.
She enjoys the way they gleam dramatically
Under the apartment’s unforgiving fluorescent bulbs.
It has been nearly twenty years since the collection began
With a single small unicorn given by her then
Seven-year-old niece as an unexpected Christmas gift.
For at least three years it was exclusively unicorns,
But the collection has since expanded to include
An astonishing array of fairies, sprites, gnomes, and trolls
Perched on most of the apartment’s available surfaces.
From time to time, she tells herself that the collection
Has gotten out of control and that once and for all
She should donate it to a charity thrift store
Or simply pour it all into the nearest dumpster.
She even boxed most of them up one evening,
But the sight of the empty shelves inspired panic
And she returned them hastily to their rightful positions.
Sometimes she imagines reconnecting with her niece
To express how much that unicorn gift has always meant,
But it has been almost twenty years now,
And there is just so much dusting to be done.

"Soda Poem"

I was disappointed to discover
That the Coca-Cola people
Have discontinued production
Of Black Cherry Vanilla Coke
Because as a fan of both
Cherry Coke and
Vanilla Coke
I felt they had finally succeeded
By including the one ingredient
I have always believed they were missing:
Blackness.