Poems About Brains

I was feeling kind of shitty and high lonesome about not posting since last week. But then today, I checked around, and saw I wasn't the only one. So...Hooray for Sluffin' Off!

Remember I had no plans for last weekend? D'ya know that plans just make themselves? I didn't really have any downtime, what with the kids wanting to go/do, and impendng school opening day requiring, oh, the shoes and the socks and the crayons and pencils. And our overgrown back yard that forced me, beyond my will, to spend several scorching afternoons out there pulling weeds and trimming rose bushes that left me with ugly open scabs. No, not pretty.

Tuesday was first day of school for the kiddos, but only half a day. Boy-child in third grade, so confident and cocky (and flirting with the ladies, YES!). Girl-child had Kindergarten open-house that morning. Wednesday was full-day for the boy but half-day (sans parents) for the girl. I worked that morning, tackling 200 emails, hearing from my boss that every project I left was nearing 'overdue' status, but that Marketing didn't have the numbers we needed anyway, but could I start on them right away because they were just being whiny babies. Fuck. SSDD.

Soccer started this week. As did dance class. As did chauffeuring and snacks and hurried dinners.

Today was hellish at work. Hell broke loose. Hell won. Then we threw Hell in a pot with some potatoes and carrots and called it stew and knocked that sucker on his ass. I truly love the IT guys I work with, I really do.

So. Now it's Thursday night. Sergei is watching football, all giddy and anticipatory. The kids are in bed. The cat is sleeping at my feet.

And I wrote some poems.

'Cause I'm liking this Friday poetry thing.

Because of my busy busy week, all the crazy stuff I have to remember, to do and buy and run around for, the poems for this week are about brains. 'Cause I'm feeling like I'm losing mine. Yeah, I know, brains aren't too sexy (unless it's a monster-movie brain and the mad scientist is truly crazy..."BRAINS!!! Yum!").

So, for your reading pleasure, poems about brains.


With All Apologies to Mr. Rogers, RIP:

It’s a beautiful day in my empty head
A beauti...uh...turtle?...uh...squash soup?...sled?
Where’s my brain now?
Down the drain now?

I took six days off and it was delish,
But my brain’s as cold as a dead goldfish
Can I think now?
Need a drink now?

It’s so nice to have a working brain
When you need it.
It’s so much fun to...uh...wait a minute...
on the tip of my tongue...feed it?

OH!

It’s so neighborly of you to stop on by
This poem’s so lame I can hear you cry,
Won’t you help find
Could you help find
Won’t you find my brain?

Won’t you please,
Won’t...willn’t...woont,
Won’t you, oh hell, fuck it....


With All Apologies to Shel Silverstein (all stuff that happened this week, except the pumpkin pie line):

Mona Buonanotte’s Head Will Not Shut Up And Go To Bed

Mona Buonanotte’s head
will not shut up and go to bed.
It’s stuffed with stuff, and messed with mess,
with pumpkin pie and watercress,
and kindergarten’s first three days
and lunchtime’s stomach-churning haze.
It’s taekwondo
Hi-yah!! Hi-Yo!
And new tap shoes on tippy toe.
And ballet shoes that need elastic
Instead of bows across the plastic,
And how’d the boy outgrow his cleats
On his size 1...no...size 2 feets?
Soccer practice Wednesday night,
and game on Saturday? Man, that’s tight.
Two hundred jillion emails Wednesday
and screwed-up project make-amends day.
Beef jerky, sausage, bacon, eggs,
Atkins comes on meaty legs.
And handsome OB’s gentle push,
the yearly peek at lips and tush.
And OH! The teachers new and shiny
need several notes, but not too whiny.
The girl needs pants.
Crayons...the boy.
The Man needs...me,
I need his toy.
The Keirsey Temperamental Test
is sucky, but I’ll do my best.
I need a drink.
I need to think.
I need to drink and think and blink and link.

Mona Buonanotte!
Stop that!
Calm yourself and make some notes!

But Mona Buonanotte didn’t hear.
Her head expanded, ear to ear,
with ‘go do this’, and ‘must buy that’,
and ‘don’t forget to pet your cat’,
and ‘that project’s due on Monday, next’,
and ‘oh you’re fucked’, and ‘oh, you’re vexed’,
and ‘what’s that rattle in your car?’,
and ‘should I buy a samovar?’

Until Mona Buonanotte’s head
Exploded.
POW!
That’s all you read.



With All Apologies to Allen Ginsberg:

I Am a Victim of One-Half Plus One-Half Equals Naught

When I was in college, the professor sez to me, he says,
“Your brain is two-sided, see,
The Right’s for the Left
The Left’s for the Right,
And both will kill you dead
As you’re walking down to CBGB’s to get your cock sucked.
You fucking punk-ass hippie freak commie pinko.”
My Left Brain told me that.
While the Right Brain stabbed at the dust in my eye with a $50 bill.
I can’t even feel the connecting tissue.
Do you talk?
DO YOU TALK?
DO I STUTTER?
Can’t you please communicate, ‘cause this shit you’re throwing,
this, “Oh, I’m SO fucking sensitive, over here being left-handed and all,
hiding in the Right side like some gutter thief,
and aren’t you GLAD you’re not an anal ass like that other side,
who talks about you behind your back
with perfect grammar
and he knows how to create pivot tables in MS Excel,
and he has a vague idea of the day you’re gonna die, fatso.”
Cut it the fuck out!
Start a fucking brain war!
Come on, let me see you go at it!
Let me pull out some Steve Vai and Stevie Ray Vaughn and
Spank you with some screaming guitars,
lash at you with leather,
while you figure out who’s boss,
you with your hot-dog artistic-nothing-ness
you with your assholery all number-crunched flat.
Chains! I’ll break out the chains,
drape you both with steel coils and pull you push you
Until you cooperate, dammit.
A revolution!
A revelation!
A bifurcated ball of what?
Kiss-my-ass?
Punk big-mouthedness.


Have a good weekend, y'all!