Abra Cadabra

Abra Cadabra

Nurse, musician too
Disappearing act complete
magician as well

I dated a fellow for two months, somebody I thought was a lovely and stable fellow. He is a nurse by day and a spectacular musician the rest of the time. Our dates consisted of seeing movies, playing Scrabble, going out to dinner, and once even making out on a street corner like a couple of teenagers. But now he's disappeared, like the milk a magician pours into a cone of newspaper. Do you suppose one of his tricks went awry? Perhaps a rabid rabbit? Or the lady sawed in half came to complain about the blouse he ruined? Whatever the reason, it's okay that this fellow has vanished. Apparently he wasn't the right one for me. Besides, this guy wasn't as nearly as awesome in spandex as Doug Henning.

Every. Day.

Every. Day.

I contemplate death
perhaps restrictive mittens
for piano man

I live in an older apartment complex, something built apparently before they had sound because there is no insulation and I can hear just about everything coming from the neighbors' apartments. The fellow that lives directly next door has an upright piano, and this fellow's brother comes over every day to practice. Every. Day. He is a brilliant pianist, but you have to practice every day to become that good. Every. Day. No. Insulation. Why does this jerk face have to practice at his brother's house? I struck a deal with him earlier this year that there would be no piano playing after 6:30 in the eve, which is usually when I got home from work, but now that I am a Lady of Leisure (read: laid off) I have to hear it all day long. Every. Day. I am going to learn how to knit right now.

Going Bananas

Going Bananas

One banana, two
walking along with knapsacks
What do they carry?

The other night on the drive home I saw two people in banana suits. With back packs. I wondered if they carried trail mix, and if the trail mix had bananas in it, and if they ate the trail mix, would they be cannibals? Bananabals? Bananabals TM. Yeah people, trademarked it.

Strange Bird

Strange Bird

Fly away, strange bird
place your turkey wattle neck
on the farmer's block

This haiku is not about a bird. This haiku is about a man. With a turkey neck. Who treated me poorly. Turkey-neck man done did me wrong.

My Platitude

My Platitude

Ho! Suck it, John Tesh!
Ameliorate elsewhere
like a well bottom

A few weeks ago I was riding with a friend who was rapid-fire changing radio stations. He paused for a few seconds when he came to the dulcet tones of John Tesh's lush voice. I looked at my friend, smiling sweetly, hoping silently that he would for the love of Jesus and all that is holy change the station. I bit my lip. I smiled more broadly. I sweated profusely. I thought about grabbing the wheel and crashing the car. I waited as long as I could before I could wait no more, when finally "Suck it John Tesh!" came tumbling out of my mouth. My friend looked at me for a moment and then changed the station.

What I Want

What I Want

Soak in a hot tub
Oompa Loompas feeding me
chicken legs and cake

I sucked tea down my windpipe the other day and ever since then I have been coughing my guts out; I'm quite positive I have some sort of bog situation in my lungs. I also have a sore throat and a headache from coughing so much. What does this have to do with anything? Well, I feel oogey, and the only remedy is the above: a really lovely soak in a hot tub of water, with small orange dwarf humans wearing overalls feeding me the legs of chickens and some cake. I'm pretty sure it could be any kind of cake, but I would be especially happy if it was cup cakes. Then the little Oompa Loompas could more easily grasp the food they gingerly place in my coughing gullet. And I don't care if they see my boobs either.

The Jesus Milk Intervention

The Jesus Milk Intervention

They gave me whole milk

when I only wanted non

Jesus intervened

They have given me whole milk in my chai tea the last few times I have gone to Starbucks; my friend believes it is Jesus intervening on my behalf. Perhaps Jesus wants me to be more robust in my pantaloons area. Perhaps he thinks I will be more satisfied with more milk fat in my gullet. Honestly Jesus, it just tears up my stomach. So Jesus, instead of intervening with whole milk, why don't you intervene with some crispy new hundred dollar bills? Or the ability to write a best-selling novel in three weeks and get it sold in one? The power of consecutive perfect hair days and the Artist Formerly Known as Prince-like lyricism. Yes Jesus, start with those things. Forget the full fat dairy.