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Summer Learns Existentialism

Six different men
approached her
in less than an hour.
I watched
from an elbow's length away,
scratching at a manuscript
to look busy,
rather than alone.
The men gave up
after she rejected
all their offerings:
another drink,
a free oil change,
an ex-wife's ring,
a ride with God.
Then she looked at me
and asked what I was writing.
I asked if she ever got tired
of saying "no".
She said her name was Summer.
I said I was Seven.
She nodded her head
and turned away.
The point being, Summer:
it truly is pointless.



The Fate Of A High School English Teacher

Lately I've been leery of mirrors.
The statistics speak
for themselves:
a single male English teacher
who lives alone with his cat.
I dine each night
at the kitchen table,
staring at the sink
stuffed with unwashed dishes.
The phone never rings,
aside from telemarketers.
Students' essays
cover on the livingroom rug.
Red ink circling comma splices
and tears on the run-on sentences.
I'm destined to end up
blue-faced
and dead in a Lazyboy.
Unshaven and bald.
Beer bottles scattered around me.
Cheese stains on my shirt.
My pants unbuttoned
and a porno tape in the VCR



A Remarkable Feat

Tommy had ambitions.
While in high school
he told himself he'd
pass biology,
make the varsity wrestling team
and masturbate
more times in 24 hours
than seemed humanly feasible.

It rained
the day he broke the record.
He told his parents he was sick
and stayed at home
with a stack
of his old man's porno flicks.
Like an inspired artist,
he worked his craft
on the family's leather couch.
The next day in school
he boasted of his remarkable feat.
Fifteen times he choked it
from the first specks of morning
to the dark toll of midnight.

Tommy was a redhead.
My father always told me
that you should never trust the bastards.