---

I saw a sign when I was walking:
“Free Hugs for Sale”
With an arrow pointing southward
Down a sunlit alleyway
With beams bouncing in puddles
And flowers grown in cracks
Under splintered windows glinting –
A serene scene like a dream
Where free hugs were being sold.
But I saw no hugger down that path
Only embrace in solid wall,
Which made me wonder how free hugs
Could possibly be sold for less.
I’m sad to disappoint that poor soul
Who is longing for a hug
And turn to carry on my path
Since I cannot discern
Whether hugs were certain down that way
Or a painful lesson to learn.

---

---

Why exactly do I feel
Connection with a time that is not my own?
Is it possible in this 60’s-esque diner
Of rockabillies and pompadours
That I know what I missed?
That this little Watson’s Pharmacy,
Stocked to the ceiling with phials
Replaced by new drugs served at the bar,
Makes me feel nostalgic for something
Of a shapeless dream?
These wood and red-brick ceilings –
A clever disguise of normalcy.
Tonics carefully labeled

But not at all accurate –
‘Long bleached walls, hanging orb lights,
Checkered floors, a candy bar;
Nothing like this
Could possibly have existed in the 60’s
Surely?
Yet, as I finish my burger
And await my apple pie
All alone on this uncomfortable stool,
I cannot help but not care for reservations
Since this spot is all my own, and I can think what ever I like of it.
If it was true to form, a real 60’s bar –
Welp, I might not return,
So better an ideal than a copy.

---

---

You might find me a trifle weird
When I laugh into your face
After you trip over your beard
And crash into the fireplace.

You might think it rather odd
For me to give a cheer
When you were last caught driving
After one too many beers.

You might see me as pretty strange
If I do the opposite of frown
Once your dog has died from mange
And your tears plop freely down.

I hope you’ll please forgive me
When you stub your toe on the ottoman
For your swearing brings me subtle glee
And your crying turns me on.

I’m just a simple, humble sadist
Who finds pleasure in your pain –
I cannot help that which latest
Brings me easy joy to gain.

If it bothers you so terribly,
I advise you cheer up now
For at least it’s you who makes me happy
And not your force upon my brow.

---

---

I have friends in the strangest of places
With the frightfullest fleshiest faces,
But none quite as strange
With a hint of derange
As Richard J. William, my friend estranged. 

Perched in a hidden thick crooked spire
Sprouting red bushes, strumming a lyre,
He keeps one eye peeled
For a woman to steal
Affection on high, a pyre of desire.

When he spots a young lady of appeal,
Strained efforts made, commanding him heel,
Are all spent in naught
On his socialite lot
As he does what he wants, not what he ought.

With the sprightliest sproing in his stache,
Muscles poised and primed for the dash,
That suave fellow sings
A tune promised to bring
Passion and pleasure and rash.

When rough Fun meets morning’s wet hem,
Promises curtail and hightail it with him;
So all are distraught
From the short-termed plots
Of that trampish Richard J. William.

---

---

Been a long night come,
and several trains,
to bring me right back home again.
And in the frigid fallen air
I see two men
a-lying there –
both blend in with darkest night,
the left stands up
the one on right
cannot.
A wheelchair is his curbside throne
where he blurts a chilly groan
protesting Lefty’s aims for home
wherever that may be.
Their speech is English,
yet is not
as if two jawbreakers rolled
and lolled about precariously
in hungry cheeks –
tongues the only thing to chew
on this and many bitter nights.

Reloading my Oyster card,
I was approached
by the rolling man
and I knew what he wanted
though I failed to hear
through those exaggerated lips.
Pity cloaked,
tobogganed head,
olive coat, oiled and greased,
and -most of all-
that mobile shrine of suffering.
I gave him twenty pounds,
was blessed,
and hurried on my way.

But as I left Barnes Station
I forgot:
Did I tap my Oyster card a second time?
I returned with haste
in time
to see the crippled homeless man
scaling the stairs
wheelchair under his arm.
He passed me,
his head low,
as if I would forget the pathetic man
I gifted twenty pounds to.

It was then that I realized:
I’d been bambeggared.

---

---

‘Twas a hot summer day under the hot summer sun
As I wandered about, my vision beginning to fade.
I was perspiring, and at the moment desiring
An ice-cold can of crisp lemonade.

I found not what I sought, but yet
What I did find, sitting at a desk on the pavement,
A queer, slick can, the bottle all tanned,
So I ceased my search under that purple tent.

“Small little can,” pleaded I,
“Pray tell what your name might be?”
“Ignorant man,” scoffed the can,
“I am Root Beer, as you can clearly see!”
“Hm, of you I have not heard,”
I replied, blaming the heat for such a surprise.
“Alas, is that so? Then I must tell you more,”
Answered the drink, its voice flitting high.

“Answer me this; of what do you consist?”
At the moment, I was thinking aloud.
“Nutmeg and sarsaparilla, wintergreen and vanilla,
And of my variety of roots and more I am proud”

“Fair enough, but even so,
Were you originally meant for pleasure?”
“No, I was originally a tonic created by an American colonist,
Whose ingredients, exempting sassafras, were strong and sure.”

“Sassafras? Doesn’t sassafras include
A certain substance called safrole that causes immense pain?”
“You are correct; consuming safrole results in cancer, so today
I am created with sassafras extract in which safrole is not contained.”

“Good, very good; that is completely fine.
But, are you brimming with fizz? Don’t lie!”
“Quite so, for, at my birth, I was
Mercilessly pumped with carbon dioxide.”

“Now one last question, and then I’ll stop;
Am I one of the naive few who hasn’t heard of you?”
“Yes, and I’m exceedingly shocked that you haven’t.
For many companies have been founded for me alone to be brewed!”

“Well, I rest my case; I’ll give you a sip.”
I threw my head back and chugged the liquid down.
“Say! You’re not half bad! What a nice, refreshing feel!
And your taste, oh, your taste does astound!”
“That’s actually just me, I confess,”
Exclaimed the sugary drink with a sigh,
“Every Root Beer has a different flavor
Because our contents get tampered with from time to time.”

Not heeding these words at all,
As I was fully satisfied and left the drink seller their pay,
I tossed the can, much to its protest, in the trash,
And continued along my merry way.

---

---

A plane my chosen vessel be
To soar in comfort ‘cross the sea
Not at all did I expect to be
Antagonized.

A woman with her little mutt
Crowned my neighbor with her butt
And taking aisle space with her gut
Liberally.

Since the dog had no space for himself
(Designated for her psychiatric health),
Crawling across with very little stealth
He curled improbably
-Yet oh so promptly-

In my lap.

The old woman could not help but dote
Upon my looks and open heart,
Grant me advice from the Golden Coast –
A share of her philosophizing smarts.

I nod with mock enthusiasm
For, within, a chortling chorus
Points out the filth upon my lap
To deride her “conscientiousness.”

For I am not a fan of dogs –
Is that what I get for smiling
Saying I like them
As supposedly everyone does
When the beast is shedding all over
Having never been on a plane before
Nervous
As am I having a greasy creature
And knowing how hard it is to get the
And the smell!
Don’t get me started on the smell.

I listen to her tiring story
Of how tiresome ‘tis living sixty years
(With open smile and scornful heart
Because she burns my ears
And her dog, it burns my lap):

“Oh, the importance of traveling
When you’ve nothing else to live for…
You know, you’re a handsome boy,
I’m sure you will find a good girl,
Progressive and forward-thinking –
Awww, Charlie thinks so, too –
Come here, boy! Is he bothering you?
No? You’re such a good boy.
Sweet, too. My son was a good boy
But we never saw eye to eye
Especially in girls, I tell you!
There aren’t many women like me anymore, tee-hee.
You’ve got to make sure
She respects herself, and dresses like it,
And is good with kids, and pleased you.
I mean, you’ve had sex before;
You probably know what you want.
Oh, you haven’t? You really need to
To know what kind of girl you want.
How she is in bed is how she is in her head
Is what I like to say about them.
But how can you not have…
And you don’t drink? Such a sweet thing,
But you’re missing out on so much –
Oh! The plane’s descending!”

And not a moment too soon
As I, with dog in my lap
Clawing my groin
And dog at my side
Yapping into my ear
Were almost equally close
To shattering this pedestal of
Propriety.

The dog tuite suit removes itself
Unveiling a nest of fur
Woven into my jeans;
The old bag,
Unwilling to carry her own bags,
Slyly encourages me to do so.
I do so
And, as she leads me outside,
For my pains and sufferings,
Am offered a ten-dollar bill.
Though not really,
Since it was only sticking out of her bags.
But, encroach and be encroached upon,
Betrays not my obliging smile
To that flea-bitten mongrel
And her like-minded pet.

---

---

Hark! The bloated belly here:
Child of mine pleasure and guilt.
Tired grow I of such boisterous baggage –
The time is nigh I tighten such lilt!

Subject to starve, supplementing to stave
Any neglect that might beckon I crave;
Trimmer and slimmer, shrink and subside,
My new fit physique seems to be bona fide.

How be it so? my toil be but spoil
As I lower mine eyes to embonpoint thighs;
My breathless bearing bears facetious façade
Feeding lie after lie whilst I gained fifty-five.

---

---

Everywhere I go I see a friend –
Those I’ve met and those not yet –
But most I pass, even those I know,
Look down as they stroll by
And avert their shifty eyes
As if to keep me from asking why –
Aha! Egad!
Is this a fad
Brought from the far-off East?
To do as the Easterners do
And give a bow to follow through
A howdy-do to you-know-who
When you can’t stop in the least?
To stare at your shoes with inclined head
So your politenessness increase?
Then I shall do as the Easterners, too,
To see if you pause at least!

---

---

See her now, the homegrown Coiffure
Who seeks her hair’s perfection and poofs always to make sure
The product pricely purchased locks her locks behind a mure
Of hairspray fired eighty times a minute every five.

Smell it now, the woman’s scent,
Forcibly shoved up your nose with nowhere left to vent
The mousse that sapped the Coiffure of all she could have spent
On things of more importance than her sloppy, drab image.

It’s midnight now, upon the plain,
And still I hear the Coiffure’s comb coming ‘gainst the grain
And that hairspray bottle’s gas brings fever to my brain
As she sprays and sprays and sprays and remains just as plain
All the same.

Where is the Coiffure heading that requires so much pain
Between nowhere and midnight on this fume-infested train?

---