pome with trash & rats

Trash only becomes trash if you throw it away.
Let it grow and clutter and climb and spread wings and fly.
Suddenly it becomes the hot new home decor. 
Call up House Hunters International. 
Click all the hot links to your Zillow profile pics.
If the trash dogs don’t eat it all first. 
If the neighbors don’t call to report the smell.
If you never make friends with the fruit flies. 
The rats. 
Feed the rats all the trash you want.
Rats will always be rats.
Rats gonna keep it a hunnit.
And game recognize game.

the perp walk: an ode

Sometimes I want to be the serial killer doing the perp walk outside the courthouse. 
If only so when the young reporter yells, Did you do it? I can stop, smile ominously, and say, Do what?
And she can yell, Murder all those women and children?
And I can cock my head to the side [without being able to put my hand to my ear in the more universal gesture of momentary deafness] and yell, What’s that?
And she can yell, CUT OFF THE HEADS OF ALL THOSE WOMEN AND CHILDREN WITH AN AX?
So I can yell back, Oh. No. I prefer fat men and fingernail clippers.
Right before the cop holds my head ever so gently as he guides me in the prisoner van so I don’t bump my head and get an ouchy.

that scene in big lebowski with the urn full of cremains blowing in everybody’s faces

When we spread my brother’s ashes in the apple orchard just below the barn, they never blew back in our face and made us sneeze or got in our mouth and made us do a spit-take like they do in the Big Lebowski and all the other hundred movies where the wind blows all the ashes of their loved ones back in their faces, but it would’ve been much funnier if it had and I think my brother would’ve enjoyed it too.

He killed himself at eighteen years old, so I think it would’ve been kind of like the last middle finger/mic drop.

But in a loving, joking smartass kind of way.