Pumpkin Season

It’s Pumpkin Season once again, 

My favorite time of year.

Pumpkin latte, pumpkin cheesecake, 

Pumpkin pint of beer!

Pumpkin muffins every morning,

Pumpkin pie at night,

Pumpkin romance cuddled up

By pumpkin candlelight.

Pumpkin tacos every Tuesday,

Pot of pumpkin soup,

Bit of pumpkin indigestion,

Bit of pumpkin poop.

Pumpkin daydreams, Pumpkin nightmares,

Pumpkin palpitations.

Orange-yellow-autumn-spiced

Halluci-pumpkin-ations!

Nothing stops the tolling of the

Pumpkin Season Bell.

Pumpkin goblins, pumpkin devils,

Pumpkin Depths of HELL!

Someone end it! Someone save us!

Someone pull us through!

Buy-One-Get-One Pumpkin Donut?

Don’t mind if I do!

More Than

More than all the stars that light

The inky velvet sky,

More than sparkles that ignite

The fourth day of July,

More than every grain of sand

On every moonlit beach,

More than every fuzzy strand

On every ripened peach,

More than songs can sing about

And more than words can say,

More than ferrets ferret out

And more than horses neigh.

More than spoiled aristocrats 

Love patriarchal power,

More than chips need salsa—that’s

How much I need a shower.

Casey at the Screen

The outlook wasn’t good in my wood-paneled den that day:

My brother still had twenty lives—I’d never get to play.

But when ol’ nature called him off to do what he must do,

I seized my moment—and his chair—for Baseball Legends 2.

I blew the cartridge, sniffed the dust, and powered up the game,

Just one short inning on my way to everlasting fame.

My eyelids tightened, fingers flexed, and brow a little sweaty,

I skipped the menu, chose “1 Player,” got my thumb tips ready.

A nimble flick through all the players set the perfect roster,

A licensed-image Hall of Fame without a sole imposter.

Then up-up-down-down-left-right-left-right-B-A-B-A-Start

To fully load my players’ stats and set my team apart.

The sky was blue, the field was fresh, the stands were packed with dots

Who cheered on a three-second loop and wiggled in their spots.

And when the starting pitch was thrown, I mashed with all my might—

A rad three-button combo that would send it out of sight.

But at the crucial moment when it mattered like no other,

My head was smacked upside itself by my returning brother!

“Get up!” he cried, “I’m telling mom, ’cause I was playing first!”

And then he purple-nurpled me.  He really is the worst.

With gritted teeth I tensed my grip around the grey controller.

For hours I had watched him through another dull side-scroller!

And now that it was my turn, well, I would not be defeated.

He’d made me miss my first swing, but that could not be repeated!

But with his elbow ’round my neck, I swung again and missed!

The players jeered, my brother laughed, the tiny crowd-dots hissed.

I punched him as the third pitch came, I heard him trip and fall,

Then focused on the slowly floating pixellated ball.

A whisper of eternity resounded in the den,

I cleared my mind and exhaled in a state of Jedi Zen.

And, tuning out my brother and the pounding in my chest,

I watched it, timed it, waited for my moment, and I pressed.

Oh, somewhere in this neighborhood the kids are filled with joy,

There’s celebration somewhere for some somewhere girl or boy.

And somewhere there are high-fives, and somewhere there’s a hug.

But there is no joy in our house—mighty Mom has pulled the plug.

Ay, There’s The Rub

Oh I’m the genie of the lamp,

And you have set me free. 

I’ll sing a song, stretch out my cramp,

And grant you wishes three. 

I won’t sit on the sidelines,

I’ll get straight to work for you. 

But first, some rules, some guidelines,

There’s some things that I can’t do. 

I can’t make people fall in love,

I can’t undo the past,

I can’t move planets up above,

I can’t make time go fast.

I cannot bring you riches,

And I will not maim or kill,

I’d rather not soothe itches

Or clean up a diaper spill. 

I don’t do windows, won’t do floors,

I cannot bring World Peace,

I will not help you with your chores,

I won’t co-sign your lease. 

I can’t transport you places,

And I can’t change your appearance,

I can’t affect horse races,

Or find hot new styles on clearance. 

A friend like me, you’ve never had—

No need to quake and cower. 

You want to be a Prince? Too bad. 

That’s just beyond my power. 

But what I do, I do so well

Your mind will come unglued. 

From in the lamp where I do dwell,

I’ll bring you any food!

Whatever you are hungry for,

A meal, a snack, a treat,

Just make a wish or three—no more—

And pretty soon, you’ll eat!

You make your wish and give a nod,

I bring your food out later. 

I’m not a wizard, not a god. 

I’m basically a waiter. 

Closing Argument

“Your honor, the defendant stands accused before the court

Of crimes quite reprehensible. The list is none too short.

Three counts of grand theft auto with a rusty old machete,

Two counts of public lewdness with a plate of cold spaghetti,

Obstructing heavy traffic wearing only a fedora,

Conducting a Bar Mitzvah with a giant gummi Torah,

Misspelling girlfriends’ names on half a dozen big tattoos,

Removing final chapters from a shelf of Nancy Drews,

Kidnapping a koala from a wildlife sanctuary,

Assaulting strangers dressed up as the ‘Random Beat-Down Fairy,’

Providing pure ghost pepper juice to quench his grandma’s thirst,

And thirty-seven separate counts of murder in the first.

Your honor, he must answer for each horrible offense.”

“Agreed. Now do you have a thing to say in your defense?”

The little man inhaled and eyed the jury on their stools,

And then he offered his defense:  “Your honor . . . APRIL FOOLS!”

The Works

Hello?  I’d like a pizza, please,

A deep dish extra large.

And on one half I want the works,

No matter what the charge.

That’s pepperoni, sausage, onions,

Mushrooms, turnip greens,

Sun-dried tomato, pineapple,

Some tiny jelly beans,

Dill pickle slices, candy corn,

Those salty little fishes,

Six chocolate chips, five onion rings,

Four pretzel rods, three wishes,

An eye of newt, some batwing flakes,

Green peppers, bacon bits,

The essence of a dying star,

A glob of cheesy grits,

Blue diamonds, purple horseshoes,

Garlic chicken, clotted cream,

Black olives, gummy peaches,

And a newborn baby’s dream.

So that’s the first half, that’s the works,

And extra napkins, please.

And on the other half?  Let’s see . . .

I guess I’ll go with . . . cheese.

Dream Cheese

I was hungry, just a smidge, 

So I opened up my fridge,

And I pawed through every bottle, jar, and can.

As I feasted both my eyes, 

I was taken by surprise

By a tiny balding six-inch little man!

“I’m the cottage cheese,” he said,

“For, you see, you’re still in bed,

And this dream you’re having sure is very strange.”

Well, a moment then went by,

And this tiny balding guy

Gave a hefty belch and then began to change.

He became a pink banana,

And he sang “Copacabana,”

While he shook his two maracas and he twirled.

Then a flash of light exploded,

The banana growed and growded,

And became the biggest sausage in the world!

As I watched him, still in slumber,

He became a big cucumber,

Then a fully tricked out sixties muscle car.

Then a wiener in a bun,

And before the job was done,

For some reason he became a big cigar.

It was this point in my dreaming

I could feel the subtext screaming

And, I tell you, I began to get annoyed.

Oh I swear, tomorrow night

I will just turn out the light

And I won’t sit up late reading Dr. Freud!