Poetry

Things I Say During My Commute

The speed limit’s 45, you rat bastard.

Nice turn signal, jackass (there was no turn signal).

There goes the Jesus Cruiser (a PT Cruiser with Christian stickers on the back).

Whoa, how’d I speed up so much?

That one’s gotta go.

Are they on a 30-minute lunch, Jesus!

Slow down.

Damn it, slow down.

Jerkbag.

Asshole.

Dumbass.

Every day we do this.

This is killing the planet.

Get me outta here.

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Poetry

The Mustache Will Stay

Why do I need to do this
I say to myself as I move the razor
over cheeks flecked with stubble,
my shallow neckbeard
evaporating under the heat of the blades.

I am not
“professional,”
nor do I see people
as often as I used to.
I run my fingers through longish
lank hair,
and I admit
I do look a little better
with a clean face.

And when I pull
my hair back a bit,
I see how a haircut would look,
and it’s not bad.
It fits
the standards of the day: short,
simple, and clean.

Okay, you got me:
I feel a little better
after cleaning up a bit.
I push myself into the outline they made.
My outside looks enough to fool them.
My thoughts, though … I won’t cut those to fit.

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