"The check's in the mail," and other good excuses for bad poetry.

Hemingway always started
with one true declarative sentence
and went from there. Then again
he had his private boat equipped with sonar
and hunted German submarines
in the Caribbean during the second
World War, so maybe his advice is
not always the soundest
but here goes nothing:

It's eating me up inside, trust me
but I really can't bring myself to
dust my room since you had to go
and use your precious little finger to write
"I love you" (with a picture of a heart
as the middle word)
on my bookshelf
before you left.

(Nope, that was nothing like
he wouldn've done it, and this
is even less:)

And while I'm at it, the way the rabbit
tickled my foot with her whiskers
as my leg dangled off the side of the bed
during tonight's lonely acoustic session
reminded me of when that nosy little rodent
sniffs my feet as they hang off the edge
during other, less convenient times
(you know, like when my head's between your legs)
and girl, lemme tell ya, the weekend just can't
come fast enough.

After I puked up that last shot
that did me in the other night
my buddy sang in his still-cracking voice
"He's only human after all!"
since that's not my style
and it made me think of you
since it's my very humanity--
the flaws not worth fixing--
that endear me to you
and I thank you for that.

Heathcliff was to Garfield
as Gary Bucci is to Nick Nolte
(I did well on the analogy section of the SAT's):
the poor man's version, not nearly as
(insert synonym for 'good' here, it's late and I'm tired)
and all of the others seem to likewise pale in comparison now
that I have your lovenotes and, uh, "other things" to miss
on these quickly cooling nights. What I'm trying to say
in my own deranged way is that I really friggin' love you, Darling
and can't wait for you to come home.

(I know, I know: it got sentimental; but anyone
who needs to write exclusively about drinking
bullfights and war is probably compensating for something;
Ernest, you were always kind of an asshole
anyway.)