Today is a good day I think for drabbles

So a drabble is just a short story that is exactly 100 words long. They are also super fun to write. Here is one.

“I hate that phrase: ‘no use crying over spilt milk.’ Either it’s saying that crying about milk is stupid, in which case the adjective is unnecessary, or it implies that there is a better time to cry, either while the milk is spilling, which is clearly a time for action, or before the milk is spilt, which would just lead to constant sobbing in front of a full glass of milk. I posit that after the milk is spilt is the only rational time to cry.”
[A short pause.]
“That,” Dan said “is exactly why she broke up with you.”

Juvenile Quotidian Bullshit #1

On my better days I know
cheap vodka and cigarettes
are no substitute for good friends
and vegetables
but right now
I'm an easy mark

I sit in the courtyard
smoking like a chimney
Waiting for god to strike me down
The last nail in the god damned coffin.

Untitled Love Song

I don't know what I love more:
the sun
rising over the horizon
throwing its rays softly over
the good and the evil
and the poor schmucks like me
whether we like it or not,
or you.

(Aw christ

it's probably all the same thing
anyway

I always get the last laugh

The Flash laughed when he saw my Entropy Man costume
but now it's two hundred trillion years later.
Who's fucking laughing now, Barry?

We shall fuck on the beaches

Single White Male
Seeks Single White Female
for weekday drinking and
foreign films.
You are seven feet tall,
impervious to bullets,
an art school drop-out.
I'm a twenty-seven-year-old
Werewolf Anarchist fuck-up
with a bad dayjob and a good nightlife.

This is a war poem
but the war hasn't been fought yet.

I hear they have an IHOP!

So this poem is pretty terrible, but I didn't write anything today so it will have to do.

The road sign says
"See Moore"
and all I can see is Moore

of the same.
The same cheap bars, the same billboards
the same square houses
The same first-and-second-and-third hand stores
The same sad faces.

Another sign
"Even Moore - 23 Miles
Moste - 47 Miles"
I take the secret exit
over gravel roads
and rusted bridges.

A mildewed sign
welcomes me to Lesse.
I drive straight through to Leaste where
I shop for coffee.
It's late, but I drive on
to Nothing
which everyone knows is just a short walk away from
Everything.

Maybe Not

I walk among the
boys and girls of the English Department.
Sad eyes scanning syntaxes.
Fingers tightly gripping the covers of
Chaucer and Blake
to keep from floating off
and disappearing altogether.

It's a classic case of the tragedy of the shut-in:
Catcher in the Rye will never
love you back.

I take my place in the parade
opening my book I
chew each word thoughtfully
roll it around my tongue and
drink deep of it.
It warms my soul like hot coffee.
Maybe that's enough.

An Observation/Fantasy, October 21st 2008

Some would say
that the automatic door on the first floor
was broken.

True, the door shudders open and closed
constantly.
But tonight
the ghosts go where they will.

Tell Me, O Muse

Why is it that I only go outside
when I want something?
I stay inside all day
surrounded by machines,
but whenever I want to write
I wander outside
and stare at a blade of grass.
"O Mother Earth
with all your beauteous bounty
inspire me to great lyrical heights"

I am like an abusive boyfriend
who doesn't call for weeks
and then picks up the phone
at three AM
begging for sex
And I wonder why she doesn't pick up.