Beauty is an Accident

Mona Lisa skinned her knees
but the frame is too small 
for you to know that

she wasn’t wearing any pants
because duh
she was a woman way back when

before the holes in your jeans
were made by a machine
I know.

your joints are immaculate
awaiting a virgin scratch
we’ll keep that our little secret

put our lips together
and let someone paint our 
infinite smirks

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(Not Really)

Sometimes I wonder how far
The cops can chase lips
I keep eight by fours in my car
To get over them spike strips

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I set a bank password my junior year of high school, and now it makes me laugh.

When I was six or seven—maybe nine
I did odd things, to pass the time
When home alone, and no one there
I’d kick a football, up in the air
Vertical it rose, likewise it fell
Against the ground, like Jezebel
Catch it I would, if I only could
But my hands were stone, fingers of wood
By ten or eleven, maybe twelve
I was still playing, all by myself
I’d throw the ball, up on the roof
Catch it would I, an advancing youth
The pads came soon, with a plastic hat
This time teammates, would pass it back
My first coach, he was married twice
But like all do, he had plenty of advice
“Steak and potatoes,” I was told to eat
I had the “Heart of a Lion,” pumping little feet
As the years went by, we usually won
I cut my hair, and my legs got long
Up and out in size, but only by age
I never quite took, the center stage
Special teams captain, was once my part
Because I never lost, that “Lion’s Hart”
Senior year, we made a playoff run
But now that’s over, I’m having college fun
To distract me from, my former teams
And to wake me up, from those football dreams
But when I fail a test, and life ain’t fair
You might catch me, kicking in the air

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Sincere Hypocrisy

Author’s note: This poem was written directly prior to The Shoes of Parody. It was originally titled “a bad poem to read; a good one to steal from…” Of course, I did that with the last line in the aforesaid poem. The mixed metaphor (Matthew 7:3-5 and pirate lore) in the first stanza originated in a Facebook conversation with a friend. A creative writer herself, she expressed fancy for the device and asked that I use it. I impetuously wrote it in here the next day. I plan to steal from myself again in the future. This poem, like many others, is like a public journal—unpolished and somewhat transparent.

I thought I was pretty fly
Riding on a rocket
But there’s a plank in my eye
Pretty soon you’re gonna walk it
Excuse my hypocrisy
Enjoy your drop to sea

Playing golf with the government
I wonder where my putter went
Nixon threw his lucky shoes in a pond
I reckon there must be a hole in one
Excuse my parody
It’s laced with sincerity

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The Cobbler is Calling, but the Phone is Unplugged, or The Shoes of Parody

I’m wearing the shoes of parody

But they are laced up with sincerity

Fitting feet so wild

Around white socks of denial

Beneath my escaping calves

They run across paragraphs

Of explanations for where I’ve been

And estimations for where I’m going

Confessions for having sinned

Abominations without knowing

The mesh lets all the water in

I have given up even botherin’

The rands are coming undone

I’m starting to stub the big one

The tongues are slipping and sliding

How long have they been lying

On top of my shoe?

The tread is dead

My blisters are red

My souls are made of rubber

Yes, I have two

They bounce back from lovers

Yes, I have to

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