Make Me Feel

The dictionary had words

With the thesaurus

And now she’s taking me

Out dancing

Along the broken keyboards

I put on my best plastic

And swiped my waltz card

Promising the subway tokens

I’d be home by May

Along the way

To the ball hall

I saw a butterfly

Made of that new

Kind of butter

That’s twice as bad for you

That’s how I knew

Spring was around us

And when I checked

My internal calendar

I was told that two more blizzards

Would hit that night

Before turning into

The hottest night

Of the year

I thought about texting

The dictionary to ask

If the ball hall has air conditioning

But as the thought

Crossed my drive

A rickshaw drove into me

And the driver yelled

For me to move

Saying that androids

Had turned this city

Into a non-stop traffic stop

Out of the corner

Of my hip eyes

I saw a mailbox

Down the street

And the next thing I knew

My gears had begun

Turning in all the wrong directions

Since my manufacture

I had never felt myself

Emotionally impacted

By another contraption

But this mailbox

Was newfangled

And so old-fangled love

Had no place for me

The postal model

Had wheels

Allowing it to wheel around

And collect letters

And packages

And love letters

And brown paper packages

And Dear John letters

And packages for people named Pete

I sent out a sonic signal

At a frequency only boxed mechanics

Can comprehend

Sure that the mailbox

Would deliver itself to me

And though I felt bad

About my certain ghosting

Of the dictionary

I understood that love

Doesn’t wait

And neither does the mail

The signal went out

But nothing came back

As disappointed as I was

It didn’t deter me

From running into a nearby store

To purchase a stamp

And an envelope

As soon as I had

Something to mail

The box was out of order

And I understood

Why it chose to rebuff

My decoration of dedication

Once you’re offline

There’s no getting

Your love in line

I moved on to my original date

But my heart was not in my steps

And though we won

A ball hall trophy that evening

For our winnebago foxtrot

We parted ways

With the dictionary taking ownership

Of the trophy for itself

I had no interest

In polish

After the heartache

I’d experienced earlier

The walk home was long

And on the way

I found myself

Thinking of mailboxes

All over the world

With wheels and without

And how I could love any of them

But there was only one I wanted

And that one was probably scrap metal

Because they’re very swift

When it comes to repurposing

Those sorts of things

In a store window

I spotted the reflection

Of one of those butterflies

And I was reminded

That new things

Are being invented everyday

I might love something new

Any day now

As my inventor said

While he was installing

My disposal system--

Anything can happen

The Cavewomen and The Storyteller

Hblurg has all the women

Hanging out in his cave

Every single one of them

The rest of us

Have no wives

The women have agreed

To mate with us

At some point

So that the tribe doesn’t dissolve

But all the children

Are going to be raised by Hblurg

And they’re all going to be named

Either Hblurg Jr. or Hblurgina

I’m not sure

How we got here

I think it all started

When we designated

Hblurg as the tribal storyteller

Hblurg is not very strong

Or good at hunting

Or gathering

In the olden days

When we were more barbaric

We would simply feed him

To Big Teeth, Little Hands

But we’ve evolved since then

And also, we don’t like feeding

Big Teeth, Little Hands very often

Because then he never leaves our camp

So instead

We made Hblurg the person in charge

Of entertaining us each night

With stories and songs

It all started innocently enough

And, in fact, it seemed to be

A huge success

Hblurg really took to his new position

And it turns out

He had a penchant for it

He was a great singer

And his stories were so funny

And he had such charm

Even though he was, by far,

The most hideous man in the tribe

And the filthiest

The smell of him was so bad

We had to invent rudimentary microphones

Just so he could stand far enough back

While performing

Without causing any of us to pass out

Within a few days, Stinga had come

To the elders of the tribe

And told us

That she would like to marry Hblurg

We were shocked

No woman had ever shown interest

In Hblurg before

But she told us that she was won over

By his brilliant reenactment the previous evening

Of Big Teeth, Little Hands eating our former chief

And O, the way he impersonated the former chief’s body

Going down the gullet of that dinosaur

Screaming and begging for his life

The entire time

We just laughed and laughed

O the flailing, o the gore!

We could see how Stinga was won over

And we agreed to the marriage

But then more women

In the tribe came to us

Wanting to wed Hblurg

We allow men to have as many wives

As they like in this tribe

But soon, all the women

Were flocking to Hblurg

Despite the fact that his smell

Only got worse by the day

And his outward appearance

Even more slovenly

The women didn’t seem to mind

Because they were so pulled in

By his talent

And the way he makes a Flying Thing omelet

We began banning any other women

From marrying him

But they would move into his cave anyway

And refuse to leave

Soon we were forced

To cancel all performances

By Hblurg at night

And instead we had Rtiz

Doing cave drawings

Of humorous things

That had happened during the day

But Rtiz is a terrible artist

And his drawing of me

Was particularly inaccurate

Now we have no women

And no art

And no omelets

And things have never been worse

And it’s getting colder lately

I don’t know if you’ve noticed

But the temperature has definitely dropped

Over the last few nights

And we don’t even have

A good story

To keep us warm

The Keeper of the Years

The Keeper of the Years

Gave me one back today

It was a year in which

I was oh so very happy

And I had forgotten it

Because the next year

Was very sad

Sometimes a sad year

Can make you forget

A happy year

And even though

It is very hard

To forget a sad year

Happy years like to use

Their happiness

To run around the world

And the memory of them

Can be very hard to catch

Sad years are sticky

And that makes them

Very hard to get of

Even though they can’t harm you

Once they’ve passed by

The Keeper of the Years

Is the one in charge

Of all the years

And the memories

They’re made up of

But if you forget a year

The Keeper can give it

Back to you

But she rarely does

Because with each day

We make more memories

And the Keeper knows

That a person can only hold

So many memories

Before they become heavy

With all that frantic happiness

And all that gummed up sadness

I went to the Keeper of the Years

And asked her

If I could have

A happy year back

There was no way to ask

For a specific year

Since you can’t remember

What it is

You can’t remember

But I knew there had to be

At least one lost year of happiness

That I no longer

Carried with me

There was so much sadness

That I was sure

There had to be happiness

Hiding them somewhere

The Keeper of the Years

Listened to my plea

And went into her bag

Of all the years

And for a moment

It appeared that I was wrong

And there was nothing lost

Only a lifetime

Of sad times

And misfortune

But then, a smile slipped

Across her face

And I saw that she had

Found something

She thought could be mine

What she pulled out

Was a tiny pearl of a year

With what looked like

A bright light

In the middle of it

And all around the light

Swirled numbers

And letters

That made up stories
I never remembered telling

And days I couldn’t recall living

When I held the pearl

In my hand

A year rushed back

Of family and friends

And great adventures

And things I couldn’t believe

I had left behind

In my mind

‘How could I have forgotten this,’

I asked the Keeper of the Years

Finding that my elation
At regaining a year

Was quickly turing

To frustration with myself

For having been so careless with it

In the first place

The Keeper of the Years

Had me come stand by her side

So she could open her bag
And let me look in

At all the years

That have ever been lost

“But look,” she said, “They’re still lit up, aren’t they?

The light never goes out

They shine until someone

Comes looking for them”

The Keeper put her hand

On my shoulder

As she said--

“How they were lost is of

No interest to them

Only that one day

Someone asks

To see them again”

Who Will Eat All This Expensive Food?

Who will eat

All this expensive food?

I suppose

We should throw it out

But if we throw it out

And the peasants

Go through the trash

As they have done

A few times

They will be envious

Of the kinds of food

We’re eating

You do not want

The peasants uprising

Because they’d like to eat

Better food

The food they have

Is perfectly fine

But it’s not the kind of food

We have

And we don’t want

To rub their noses in it

By showing them

That most of the time

We barely even finish

Most of it

My solution would be

To set the food on fire

We can have the servants--

Well, I suppose

We can’t do that, can we?

Because the servants

Talk to the peasants

And if the peasants find out

We’re setting food on fire

In the private courtyard

We’ll have our heads

On spikes in no time

I suppose we could just

Let it rot until it’s indistinguishable

From gardening soil

And then we could plant it

But I suppose that would take

Quite a long time

And the smell in the meanwhile

Would be atrocious

We could just eat it

Of course

But, as usual

The guests got full

On some of the lovely bread

Our chefs make

And now all this expensive food

Has gone uneaten

And we need to dispose of it

And once again

It falls on my lap to do it

Are the dogs hungry?

Will they eat swordfish

And wild boar?

The dogs are barely

Ever hungry these days

And I have no idea why

Finicky dogs are not uncommon

In a castle

But these dogs of ours

Are very finicky

And I know for a fact

That Sir Gregory does not care

For wild boar

Let alone the truffles

We never got around to tasting

I could instruct the royal shovelers

To dig a hole in the dungeon

And bury all the food there

But if we keep that up

Every time the guests

Don’t finish dinner

We’ll have to dig up

Every floor in the place

It’s so hard being rich

I so envy poor people

Who eat potatoes

And nothing but potatoes

And finish every bite of it

Because they know

What it is to starve

One day the guests will come over

And I’ll serve them potatoes

And they’ll look at me

As though I’m mad

But that might show them

That not everyone

Has the privilege

To push back their chairs

And retire to the ballroom

For a dance

After consuming

Nothing but bread

It’s important to remind people

Every so often

That not everyone

Can dine finely

But the thought of teaching

Anybody that

Is so tiring to me

It makes me think

That a few holes

In the dungeon

Wouldn’t be

The worst thing in the world

I suppose if it’s that

Or potatoes...