A bird without feathers
a frog without jumps
Mom’s mashed potatoes
made without lumps,
A pen full of words
that come out in order
a small herd of worms
guarding the boarder,
Lyrics forgotten
yet stuck in your head
lobsters escaping
never turn red,
fingers in winter
that never get cold
Memories of you
never grow old.
'Twas the day before Christmas,
not a card in the box,
I've not heard from friends,
our mailman was lost.
The neighbors went searching
for the postman that lagged;
found some of the letters
him half in the bag.
They gave him black coffee
and brought him inside,
a handful of toffee
and gave him a ride.
We finished his route
and delivered the mail,
in hopes to keep Charley
from going to jail.
It was Christmas spirit
that saved him that day,
and proved sending e-cards
is now the new way.
ZC
Scheduled surgery is the best possible prevention for getting a good night’s sleep. It is the first side effect listed under having an active immigration. It is impossible to stop or even slow down the various scenarios the mind conjures up.
It is the knowing ahead of time that causes the problem. What it should be is a surprise, like a wrapped gift, a Christmas present. You know it is something but what? Maybe it is a good thing, you don’t know. That way your mind has options and isn’t stuck on that shadowy path of doom.
Using my method, the surgeon is the excited child, looking forward to opening up the present, which is now you. They can’t wait. Days ahead of time they send you phone messages full of pages of forms to fill out, history to document and what drugs are you taking, your dog’s maiden name and don’t forget to pay ahead of time.
With
days still to go, you get another phone message. It’s time to check in. Trust me, none of this adds to your confidence
level. All you can picture now is the
excited little surgeon, jumping up and down, scalpel in hand, can’t wait to see
you walk through the door.
ZC
When the baseball left the
pitcher’s hand
a hush fell on the crowd,
Designed to last for 20 years
when it fell it was quite loud,
Folks were squished and beer was
spilled
dogs and popcorn splattered
People screamed and yelled for
help
but nothing seemed to matter,
The runner left at second base
still waiting for a sign
wondered why the third base coach
was taking his sweet time,
The scoreboard lay in center
field
sparks rose in the air
numbers from the backs of seats
landed everywhere,
Home plate Ump brushed from the
plate
rubble and debris
with no one in the dugout
it ended three to three.
I grew it in a petri dish
it doesn’t like the sun
I said that it could have a wish
it wanted only one,
“Leave me here to multiply
don’t take me for a walk
I’ll be your little secret
they’ll never make me talk.”
I know not of its lifespan
I keep it down the stairs,
I noticed just a week ago
that it had lots of tiny hairs,
It has outgrown the petri dish
I got a mixing bowl,
then I had to make a place
with lumber and tin foil,
Can't ever use the basement
one step and it will growl
and only flip the light switch
if you want to hear it howl.
If whispers had wings
and time didn’t fly
you’d know all my secrets
and understand why
It’s always been the blank page that draws me in. It calls to me. If people were magnetic, I would fly across Office Depot and stick up against their stack of typing paper. They would have a hard time prying me off. I don’t think this is an affliction and the only cure I know it to write something. The side effect, of course, is that not everything I write is worthy. In fact, nothing I have ever written will stand the test of time. Unlike Shakespeare, years from now people won’t be reciting Zobostic’s Last Cookie.
I can’t imagine they
will give tours… This is the childhood
home of ZC. That, over there, was his
first typewriter and those are what remains of his small bottles of
Whiteout. You can still see the unopened
boxes of commas beneath the desk. He
loved commas.
