Modeled

(Inspired by Mark Baumer)

I woke up this morning and had an orange
lollipop for breakfast.
I heard the washing machine in the kitchen
in concert and pretended the slushing water
of the rinse cycle was in tune with Jesse
Johnson’s song “Crazay” featuring Sly Stone
in my head.
The horn of the morning scheduled train attempted
to squander my thinking in the distance over the
buzzing mini fan on the living room floor and I
complained, “I need just a little bit
more.”
My talking disc clock just announced it’s
9 am on the dot and everybody else overslept.
I glanced at the striped cover on the ironing
board and ruminated over the possibility
of life in prison.
I swore the ceiling fan, that huge ceiling fan,
looking all antique, waylaid until I was under
it so it can drop and finally molest my skull.
At last, I’ll be a trepanned man, a man in a big
beanie.
Fangoria Magazine, come over here or here I come,
and take this, have some fun.
The sun has come home and settled in with
Spring, but I’m too disgusted with my own
disinterest to see it coming.
I hate that it’s raining today.
I thanked the couch for dealing with my fluctuating
weight.
The lost library card I found last year never
made it out of my pocket, in the hands of one
of the attendants at the information desk.
I don’t know why. It’ll be a lie if I keep saying
my head isn’t there.
If I recite Boukman’s prayer, there might
be a challenge to injustice everywhere.
Man, what will I do if everything about life
becomes fair?
I’m afraid of anybody who believes adding
drama to life is enticing.
I’m scared of chemtrails, Hell, jail, and too much
of a worry over reports of certain vaccines, HFCs,
GMOs, the school to prison pipeline, propaganda
against groups of people, black mainly, the pushed-on
gender wars set my sanity on fire with lies.
If there is death for censorship, where is the
killer?
Why someone often as nervous as me hasn’t
helped himself to a beer or hard-ass liquor yet,
or begging for somebody’s old cigarette butts
before they take the last drag?
I’m still crushed after 30-plus years that I still
can’t doodle the perfect rainbow.
It’s dirty how people don’t even mention Pluto
anymore?
I’m so lucky.
I never officially came out of the closet.
Everybody close to me just knew.
It must be nice to have the radar.
If I live to see 40 years from today, will I have
to chew soup to prove to the young folks that
I still got it.
Please let me get lost in a Shaun Tan illustration.
I want Cecily Tyson to call me her new grandbaby.
Since it’s raining, I’m in shambles, pieces and sadness
is whispering for a conversation.
The rug is still the same old rug.
I wanted to meet up with my friend Mike today, but that’s
not gonna happen.
I could never read anything by Ray Bradbury.
Every popular story I’ve ever seen or read has everybody
else’s except my life in them.
There should have been more capable, generous men in my
life.
Please, atom-break my brain and reassemble it the right
way.
I’ll tell you one thing, living a lot today is too little.

A lover of practically any form of Breakout-style game and a frequent taster of strawberry ice cream, Jarrod Lacy is an appreciative late bloomer & Gen-Xer from the Tennessee Valley. Self-described as a simple explanatory poet, he was inspired by his 11th grade English teacher to further his poetic explorations after hearing a recitation of a Christmas poem in class, and he has been sprouting writs ever since. Currently, he is writing at least one poem a day.

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