Category Archives: Odes

Oh Groupon..

Down a dark deserted hallway

There’s a small windowless room

Where Melanie the Masseuse lies encased in her tomb

Century’s passed since she last uttered a word

Era’s gone by and she has not stirred

She lies there dreaming of a life that once was

Memories are sharp

Digging around with their claws

Being cryogenically frozen in space and time

Her lips and skin blue

Hair matted down like glue

She lays there awake

Her mind never off

She see’s only the darkness behind

an old linen cloth 

The hallway outside brightens and buzzes

The flourescent lights turning on

Her ears perk up

She hushes

“What’s going on?  What’s happening out there?”

Rolling down her cheek is a lonesome frightful tear.

Someone rambles in

her chambers where she lies within

“Hello?  Is someone there?”

Her chin


“It’s just me your next client.  Do not be alarmed, I’m compliant.

Your clients await you, they’re filing in by the masses.

So get up my dear friend, 

Get up and massage 400 asses.”

I’m waiting for my next client.  It’s 11:09.  She’s late.  Damn.  I hate calling people.  I’ll wait until 11:15, than I’ll call her.

I wrote that ode in the 20 minutes I’ve been sitting here waiting.

Tick tock

Tick tock


It’s a dark rainy day here on October 12th

It’s payday from Groupon

Now aint that just swell – th

I like getting money instead of waiting in the dark

Being frozen in time, eating up minutes like a shark

Ahhh What am I saying?

Shit where is this lady.

It’s not a lady, it’s a man and I got his voice mail.  This is not good.  I need to be fully booked everyday 6 days a week cause you know why?  You want to know why?  Because I’m pretty much screwed in the ass otherwise.

I’m not just massaging 400 asses – it’s a lot more than that.  A shit ton more.

Groupon wanted to sell a package deal – buy 3 massages for $100.  I get $17.50 a massage plus tip, so I said sure sounds great.

Besides, most people will opt for the one hour.  Buying 3 sessions to get a rub down by someone you don’t know is highly unlikely.  Well, Groupon took it upon themselves to “sell out” of the 60 and 90 minute massage options.  How can you sell out of massages?

I found this out from two of my clients.

“Really?  I had no idea they did that.  How would I sell out of massages?”

So last night I looked online and saw how many of the package deals I sold.  I want to cry.  I want to cry, weep, wither and die.  I want to stick Groupon with a sharp pointy stick in their eye.

I sold 200 of the buy 3 deal.  200!  200 X 3 = well, you do the math.  I have to give 800 massages within the next 5 months.  Break that down day by day that’s 5 clients a day if I work 7 days a week.  5 clients a day, and then I’m getting repeat full priced clients on top of that.

I’m fuuuuuuucked.  Fucked.  Hence the poem.  I am so freaking out right now.  I’m calling Groupon, screw it.  I’m calling them right now.

Damn I’m on hold.  It’s 11:39.  Let’s see how long it takes for them to pick up.

I feel like I’m going to shit my pants.

I desperately need a desk in here.  My back doesn’t hurt after a day a massaging, it only hurts when I type in my blog.  I’m hunched over with the Mac in my lap.  Ouch.  A tv tray is no desk.  It’s not tall enough.


What song is this?  Is it supposed to keep me calm?  It’s not working.

11:48.  I just got off the phone with them.   The private sale in now turned off – thank the lord Jesus.  I only had 24 more to sell before reaching 400, but 24 x 3 = Well, you do the math.  I’m bad at it.

I’ll be okay.  Everything will be okay.  I’m making money, this is a good thing.  It’s what I wanted.  And selling on Groupon requires a huge price in advertising, so I’ll be able to deduct my losses as a business expense – I won’t have to pay much at all for taxes next year.

Instead of getting an accountant to deal with everything, I’m learning how to do it all myself.  I studied the different options, weighed the pro’s and con’s and opted for a sole proprietorship.  It’s versatile and also allows for health insurance deductions.   I won’t have to pay a dime in health insurance.  The massage association offers a plan to insured practitioners, so that’s on my to-do list.

Think about it, why pay an accountant when I can take that money and donate it to charity instead and in the process teach myself the in’s and out’s of the tax world.

I bought Turbo Tax software for sole proprietorship from Amazon for $8.  Laziness is the bane of all human existence.  I’m trying to do the opposite.

Damn I need a desk.  Shit yo.

I’m going to read a little and lay on my back on my Spoonk mat.

spoonk mat

Click on the image if you want one.


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Filed under humor, journal, Massage therapy, Odes, rant

Melanie’s late night ramblings

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie Ala Mode

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie Ala Mode (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I never fit in well with women gatherings. Last week I went to a pampered chef party / purse party / birthday party all in one at Kristie’s house. It was me and a bunch of her girlfriends. They talked about cookware, purses, recipes, buying stuff. I talked to the only guy there – a 15-year-old boy named Gabe, Kristie’s son. He seemed more fresh and awake than the others.

I never fit in with a group of girls. I especially don’t fit in without alcohol. I sit there with a hazy mist over my eyes wondering how I got there, and what I should be doing now that I’m there.

Give me something to grab onto! I don’t care about buying matching tote bags or a frying pan. I don’t care about your grandma’s recipe for rhubarb pie. I’ll cook it, eat it and nothings left but empty plates. Why don’t you make the pie for me instead of telling me an unrealized grouping of ingredients? I’m not going to group them together. I have only me to cook for, and I’m not worth the trouble.

People seem flat. Talking about the same conventional stuff. None of it really matters. They meld together into one big clump having no discernible traits. Sure there might be a fun drunk one, but she’s a commonplace drunk. Fitting in accordingly. The only way to see any of them individually would be to take a rubber scraper bought from Pampered Chef and scrape one woman away from the clump. I would scrape them all apart, like making cookies on an oiled sheet pan, separating each one to see what kind of cookie they are. They can’t possibly all be the same cookie.

Attempting to interact with a group discussing dish towels tells me nothing and leaves me dry.

My world consists only of experiences, people and learning. I’m not attached to anything material. If my tv blows out, I would say “the hell with it” and move on. If my socks don’t match, I say fuck it.

Women in group discussions such as this, communicate in parallel lines. They run side by side, never to intersect. What’s the point?

Not all women are like this. But most of them are. Especially in large groups led by Kristie.

I love Kristie, I really do. But even separated from the pack, she still runs parallel. What is it she lacks that very few other people have?

I love men because they’re similar to me. They get me. I love beer, going to dive bars not caring how I look or how the person I’m talking to looks. I love playing pool, riding motorcycles and not being committed to anyone or anything. I’m like a man in many ways. I hate talking about how I feel, or sharing my emotions because nothing ever comes of it – NOTHING. And I’m left with a bunch of dirty plates and a splattered, tattered old recipe for grouping together torment.

I love my male counterparts. I love how I can hop on the back of Dave’s bike, pop in my earbuds and tune everything out. Guys have a great ability to tune everything out that isn’t necessary to the moment. That’s why they make such good mechanics, engineers and mathematicians – they leave out the bullshit.

I can be like one of the women. I can slide right in with them, get excited over wedding dresses and cute baby clothes – I can tell myself to do anything and do it, but it’s selling out. It’s cheap and lazy and the cowards way, the defeatist’s way out.

Relinquishing yourself to religion and relying solely on God to tell you what to do is spiritually lazy. Just like relinquishing your individuality and relying solely on others to tell you who you are and what is socially acceptable and normal, is lazy. I never cared about being normal anyway.

There are two certainties in life that should unite us with individuality and love. One certainty is that each one of us, in a sliver of a moment, was the youngest person on the planet. Cold, shivering, wet and blue – we were born with the very first unique double helix sequence of DNA strands that make us individually unmatched by any other who ever existed before us and will EVER exist for all of eternity. We should embrace that we are all uncommon and solitary . The other certainty is that we are all going to die. The people living on earth at this very moment will cease to be in 80 years give or take. That means in 80 years there will be an entirely new population inhabiting the earth. And it’s not science fiction, it’s fact.

We are here at the same time. We will die at the same time. Everything in-between is either eaten away by hate, leaving nothing but empty broken dishes, or filled with a warm, lovingly made rhubarb pie from grandma. People make no sense to me. Wouldn’t they pick the pie? I see pie all around, but very few are handing out slices. People are idiots.

I drink to cope with the idiots. I drink to lose myself only to reset myself. Everything resets the next day. Too tired to do anything but sleep, letting myself sleep guilt-free. Like a newborn babe – not a care in the world. Nothing to do but recover and grow my strength back until the idiots rain down on me again, pulling the booze closer to my lips.

Boom boom POW them chickens be jacken my style, think I’ll head to the bar and get drunk for a while.

I need to chew valerian root and soak my tampon in vodka.

Man – “Excuse me ma’am but are you drunk?”

Me – “No but my vagina is. You can take it home with you and it won’t remember a thing tomorrow.”

I went to a Renaissance fair the other day. I went to see a tarot reader who said I was going into a major depression anywhere from now until six months from now. It was the moon card that came up – not a good one to draw. He also said that next year around May I’m going to have to take a lions leap into the unknown, or I can choose to stay comfortable where I am now. We shall see. I’ve always been a big supporter of comfort. Comfort always supported me.

I’m not depressed. I just want to be left alone in a warm, hazy place. I want solitude – I crave it. But I always find myself out in the world, drinking it in, running from the emptiness, draining my energy until I have no choice but to be left alone to sleep it off.

Anyone can get married, anyone can have babies, anyone can get a job that swallows time and pays so you can buy shit and buy shit to put your shit in, but not everyone can do what I do. Not everyone can stay up till 2:30AM writing random thoughts into a little nook in the world. Or can they? Yes, anyone could I ‘spose. Okay, nevermind then.

Anyone can do the things they are “supposedly” meant to do. And then they celebrate, pat themselves on their backs thinking they’re better than everyone else who still haven’t “made” it. I’ve never been jealous of anybody – I never met a person I’d rather be. We are all equal, so I have just as good a chance as all those other suckers out there waking up at 6AM, brushing their teeth and going to a job that never changes. It holds them and keeps them in place. I have no place, now that’s brave.

I pamper my courage with cobo shots and jaeger rocks.

Rolling home at 5AM

with a beer tucked in my hand,

crushed empties topple the driveway,

in a sad display.

I clamber out of my car,

luminous like a quasar.

I stumble, I swagger,

my belly getting fatter.

It’s two-thousand and twelve,

my sanity shelved.

I got nothing to lose,

my dominations in booze.

That’s why they call me a barfly.

Now slice me off a piece of your

Grandma’s rhubarb pie.

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Filed under Odes, random thoughts

Melanie’s Old English beer poem! Well, not really old english, but I tried

Pale Ale

I still haven’t made up with my girlfriends whom forsaken me, so I made up this beer poem. Now I must take my leave and get hammered. Cheerio.

A lithe woebegone girl drifted into a pub

She slumped down on a stool

Her cold hands did she rub

The barman bit his brazen cue

Asked the downtrodden lady

“What can I git you?”

“I’ll have my usual, Andy, old friend.

Something to dampen my heart, something for it to mend.”

Andy smiled beneath beard of scruff,

“Coming up, Mel. We’ve got the right stuff.”

Andy returns holding an ale of good blessing

Her eyes henceforth, a look of acquiescing

She raised the pint to her lips she must press

Tilted her head back, her mouth did confess

The bubbly of golden hue dons a mane of frothy tresses

One sip dost she take to numb her sodden senses

She doth not weep nor wail but sigh,

Places a hand on her one buxom thigh

“I downed this here beer and now’s left is naught. Why don’t ye be a good lad and get me another draught.”

“Beer here’s not dearth, I hath many more to quench thine thirst.”

He slides a new brew over,

Not too soon she will no

longer be sober

Who looks out those wary eyes

Whence her soul, “Whence comest thou lies?”

She peered inside her glass so barren

Empty as the tides of Charon

“Andy, my boy, my glass hath nary.

Now be a good lad and fill her up – beer me.”

drinking a pitcher of beerBarfly

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Filed under journal, Odes

The Drunk Tree

There once lived a happy tree.  It’s fruit tasted like apple candy.  Everyone wanted a piece of this tree.  They plucked its fruit and filled their pockets greedily.  Until there was no more fruit to take.  Just barren bark and branches to break.  The face of the tree remained without hate.  It sat unflinching, watching the hounds salivate.

Having no fruit, nothing more to take, the grabbing, grasping hounds had their appetites to slake.  They found a way to fix the face of the tree, carving in their initials like they owned thee.  Her sap weeping down, her wood splintering, the hounds slaked their thirst and stopped their whimpering.

The tree needed nothing, just the sun to be kind.  It liked watching her branches rise up and intertwine.  Having nothing to give, the hounds trailing off, she was left alone with nothing but moss.  She shielded herself off in the shadows of her leaves, safe from the gluttonous hands of thieves.

Sometimes the hounds came sniveling by, smacking their chops and eating flower tops.  They would find nothing and leave, wiping their sniffling noses on their sleeves.

The tree was with her rightful brood.  A brotherhood of elms, it was beer that they brewed.

They welcomed her in, opened limbs to their heart.  They called her a “chip off the old bark.”  She was bruised and maimed, taking all of the blame, lied to and used, but the fermented ale diffused the abused.  She was now back in, with good company.  No longer feeling excluded, the elms wanted her there with them, included.

With her fruit growing back, feeling no lack, she felt she could achieve most anything.  And give back whatever the sun may bring.

weeping willow

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Ode to 30 Rock

Jenna Maroney

I’m Drunk as hell,

Eating chicken soup

Watching 30 Rock

Then maybe the Kung Fu movie, Ong-Bak

I laugh so hard

Tears run down my leg

I think tonight

I drank an entire beer keg

I slept with a married man

We did it on the floor

Liz Lemon would proclaim,

“Holy hammer of Thor!”

And now here I am

on the inter-web

Blogging the evil ewoks

out of my head

I lay here alone

Just me and my blog

Alone in my room

Writing this melodious glob

I taken two naps

One in the noon-time

And evening

Before my perilous

binge drinking

And now I’m warm and snug

Sipping chai tea

Laughing at the insecurities of

Jenna Maroney

30 Rock rules

It kicks my gloomy blues

Lets me forgive my adultery

And escape

For a little while


Grotesque carnival

Of human misery

As chai tea dribbles down my chin

Laughing at Jack Donaghy



Filed under humor, Odes

My last day of work and an ode full of toe rot all in todays special installment of “Melanie’s Blog”

Breakdancing Kurt

Image via Wikipedia

This is my very last time sitting in this particular Starbucks.  My job in this plaza is done.  Finito.  Hasta la pasta buster.

I hate goodbye’s – I really loathe them.  One of my coworkers went all out and bought me a card and several presents for my trip to Nepal.  It was really touching and thoughtful. I have trouble with touching and thoughtful because they’re too much for me to handle.  I’m too sensitive and sentimental so any touching expressions hit me hard in a place where there are no words.

I’m sitting here in Starbucks with the sun shining in my face.  I can’t stop yawning and rubbing my eyes.  I slept so well these past few days, acquiring well over the recommended amount.  I am after all, a professional sleeper.  I know of no other who can sleep 14 hours in a single day, or take naps on a whim other than cat’s and old men in recliners.  I am blessed with the gift of sleep but the only problem is it makes me so damn groggy.

Two clients remain before I can sneak out of ME without causing any more touching goodbye sentiments.

I’m leaving for Nepal soon.  Today is Feb 22 and I leave March 4th.  I’ve gotten very little exercise to prepare myself for the Annapurna Circuit.  Practically none, really.

Last Friday I went out with one of my girlfriends.  We started the night at the Cadillac Ranch where we got bumped and pushed while line dancing.

Did you know that line dancer’s are nuts?  I’m going to get in trouble for saying that because they’re everywhere and overtaking the population.  But if you ever get caught dancing creatively on the line dance floor, you will get pushed and cattle prodded by your so-called friendly neighbors.  Breakdancing for example, is shunned at a cowboy bar.  If I were to breakdance at the Cadillac Ranch, Indiana Jones and the temple of Doom’s fire pit would emerge beneath me and I’d fall to my death chanting “Um nump she body Um nump she body,”  after getting my beating heart ripped out of my chest by a line dancer of course.

Unfortunately for me, the floor attracts my spinning back like poop on boots once I get moving and grooving with a belly full of beer.

Me and my friend escaped to Sam the Clams before getting pelted with flying belt buckles.

There was a band playing at Sam the Clams and people were dancing.  I was getting snockered and having fun, so I got down on the floor and spun around in an attempt to breakdance.  I do this whenever I feel the crowd’s attention on me – and they were egging me on.  After I busted a move (and my tail bone), I got up and did a sort of “jazz hands” to thrill my captive audience.  I had a big cheesy smile on my face.  That’s when an old lady hugged and kissed me.  YES my dancing is really that awesome that old lady’s feel compelled to hug and kiss me.

My friend had her back turned the whole time talking to someone, so she missed my breakdancing.  But hey it’s cool, it’s not like I tugged on her arm and said, “Did you see me?  Did you see me breakdance?”  I’m too cool for such unnecessary attention.  Too cool indeed.

Then I took part in a three-way kiss.  I’m not really a three-way kind of gal, hell, I’m not even a two-way unless I’m madly in love and considering marriage.  It’s a shame really, because I really like sex.  Sex is cool yo.  I at least still have the one-way version.  And also my lucid dreams where I grab the nearest man and have my way with him.

I tried to play it cool by agreeing to the kiss, but it turned out to be a complete failure.  I kept laughing so the only things getting kissed were my teeth, which made me laugh even more.  When it was over, one of the people said, “Um, that was weird.”

It turned out that the high point of my night was the kiss and hug from the old lady who loved my breakdancing moves.

I woke up at noon the next day and went to hibachi with my ex and his entire Polish family to celebrate his dad’s birthday.  It was quite honestly the best hibachi I ever had.  I was ravenous.  Squid hibachi makes for a great hangover food.  The best part was it was FREE!

I went back to Dave’s parents house to eat cake.  His Polish relative who could barely speak English was telling me about people who died hiking the Himalayas.  He said I need wool socks and a radio attached to my jacket.  I don’t think he realized I’m not actually going up Everest, just dawdling around its lowest base camps.

I crawled into bed when I got home and slept for ten hours.


I’m home from Starbucks, home from work.

Far away from going berserk

I popped open a Hefeweizen

Read my blog post over again

And tried to find words to describe how elated I am

No, that’s not true

Elated I am not

I feel as scared and helpless as my Mother’s toe rot.

(Click the pic to see)

I had too much nicotine

Too much caffeine

My brain is melting like Charlie Sheens’

I’m leaving in ten days

To a place I never been

No hot water, no indoor plumbing

Will make me feel quite unbecoming 

But alas I must go

It will be an adventure fo’ sho’

My life will be like a brilliant starry night

Like the painting, Starry Night

By Van Gogh

My Mother’s worryied that I might start a political riot in Nepal just because I’m sporting a “Free Tibet” bumper sticker latched on the side of my car.  It’s a compliment, really.  I mean, does she really think I have it in me to start a revolt?  Am I a leader?  A leader of Nepal deemed worthy of being named Her Holiness the 15th Dalai Lama?

Mom – “Don’t talk politics whatever you do.  Don’t start anything to cause a riot.”

Me –  “I’m going to start a revolt!”

Mom –  “Don’t you dare!”


Mom –  “Don’t forget to bring Nana’s whistle.”

In other news, today was my last day of work.  Christina, my massage nemesis, was there.

During one of her lecture’s a few weeks ago, she was showing me a book – MY book that I brought from home to keep at the clinic as a reference guide.

Christina – “This book is great.  See, you can look up any medication a client is taking and see the contraindications for that medicine.”

Me – “Yeah I know, this is my book.  I brought it from home.”

Christina – “Oh, really?”

And today, when I was cleaning out my locker, I looked over on the bookshelf and seen my book Christina was using to lecture me with.  I was going to take it home just to spite her.  I opened the book to the front page cover and seen written in bold black ink, her handwriting, “PROPERTY OF MASSAGE ENVY, GLASTONBURY.”

Me – “Holy shit that evil bitch.”

She’s not actually evil, but saying it aloud made me feel better.   I know for a fact that wasn’t written there on lecture day.

But just think about it.  I mean, just how much hate and anger can this woman have for me?  I know that Jeff, the owner, talked to her about my resignation letter.  I was keen on her ignoring me.  But I didn’t lie to anyone.  I may have played the role of an underhanded little shit, but I’m passive aggressive and that’s how I roll.

I ended up not taking the book home with me.  Now I wish I had.  It feels like she won by getting to keep my stinking book.

Oh well, what can you do……I’m going to sleep for a good ten hours then go hiking.

Oh no wait!  First I’ll tell you about the dream I had.

I’ve been vaping my e cig a lot and accruing a high nicotine debt, so I think that’s what triggered this lucid dream.  It was a weird semi-out of body lucid dream.  It started with odd sounds in my bedroom, but being too tired to wake myself up, I let it slide.  Then I floated out of bed and looked out my window to see the sun shining and reflecting shimmering wads of cash raining down outside.

“Oh that should be a good sign.  I have to remember to look up money in my dream dictionary.”

Then I was traveling at warp speed.  I had a brilliant idea to use this sacred time to prophesize my Nepal trip.  So I asked the question, “Will I have fun on my Nepal trip?”

Then I was some place dark.  I got scared, but a tribesman picked me up and started running me away from the darkness.  He had a deadpan face, looking straight ahead and running at a brilliant clip.

Once we were safe, he put me down and I asked him the question, “How will my Nepal trip go?”

He starts laughing.  He had short dreads matted down on his forehead, a big smile.

Tribesman – “Ha ha, I’m sorry but I don’t usually get people like you here asking me questions.”

I studied him closely to see if my brain could ever conjure up such a man.  I looked at him expectantly.  He pleasantly came closer to my face and said in a clear, crystal voice;

Tribesman – “Be your experience.”

I had no idea what he meant.  I still don’t.

Then he slipped away back into what looked like another dimension separated by a thick membrane between his world and mine.  I could hear his fellow tribesmen snickering at me and trying to scare me by grabbing at me from the other side of the membrane.  So I ran away and that’s when I woke up.

It was weird.  I’m weird.  Shit.


Filed under humor, journal, Massage therapy, Odes

I can’t stop rhyming!

Cropped screenshot of Marlon Brando from the t...
Image via Wikipedia

It’s night-time here in the house of Mel

The lights turned low and I silenced my cell

I’m chillin’ here in my brothers old sweatpants

Feeling crazy, sexy, cool just like John Cougar Mellencamps

I’m as awesome as he is, yep, uh huh – it’s true

I’m on the celeb’s A list – I’m part of their top crew.

What, you don’t believe me?  Well then listen to this;

Here’s a little ode I wrote – a melodic little riff:

I’m going to grab life by the balls

Live large like Biggie Smalls

I’m going to buy a sailboat and see the world

Bag myself a Lamborghini and take it for a whirl

I’m going to learn classical piano

My husband will look like Marlon Brando

I’ll do this all starting tomorrow

I’m too tired now, sleep I can’t borrow

For now I’ll have my tea, sleepytime to be exact

It dulls my senses until they’re no longer intact

My tea was brewed with love and care

Tenderly made inside a delicate prayer

It sits expectant on my desk

The mug is waiting, very statuesque

I also sit – time passes on

I’m laughing to the funny show, Parks and Recreation

Seriously, it’s funny – quite possibly one of my fave’s

I love how goofy everyone behaves.

Okay, done for now – I’m too cool to go on

My life is artistically awesome like the movie, Black Swan

If I don’t stop, I’ll erupt

with a gelatinous flow of words to disrupt, interrupt and congeal to the pulse of an aching mind that won’t heal.  Words form the basis of most thinking minds.  Expand your vocab, you uncover the blinds.  More tools to choose from – to hack away uncertainty, new ways to feel things, express things – to rule sovereignty.

So yeah, words are important in a big way

More important than racquetball, rap songs, crochet.

I must end here, my energy is on E

I’m going to watch one more episode of Parks and Recreation

And finish my tea


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Filed under Odes, random thoughts

Quick Ode before bed

Wylie Gustafson, world-famous "Yahoo!&quo...

Image via Wikipedia

My Nana was a yodeler.  I am an odeler.  The apple falls not far from the tree.

Yodeling and odeling are similar in sound, used to convey melody.

I’m home from work, back tired, not broke – and I stare at this screen in revelry.

Finding words to fill the page

Ways to escape the cramped, crowded cage

You hold the VIP ticket to my head


My mind is free to wander and ponder

If I look closely enough,

there may be a thought over yonder. 

Nope, no thought.  My brain couldn’t be blonder.

Any thought or idea, I did squander.

Even still –

I sing rhymes that are sublime and write far-out haiku’s.

Your ears may tingle from the jaunty jingle of words that smoothly ooze through.

I sit and smile

Sip my sleepytime tea

My soul is soaring like a wild banshee

I’m ready for dreamland

My head is calling for its pillow

Nothing rhymes with pillow.



Filed under Odes, Uncategorized

Ode before work

My Iphone alarm strikes 10, I’m up and out of bed again. Starting a new day, but massaging the same clients, in the same way.

I listen for the sound. The sound of water from the upstairs tap. My OCD cousin is a mentally disturbed chap. He uses all the hot water so my shower becomes an ice-cold death trap.

Golden silence ensue’s. Upstairs is oddly quiet. I’m off to my bathroom without starting a riot.

My parents are away, gambling in the city. Leaving me with my home life, shitty. Stuck here alone with a strange grown man and his mother. They don’t speak to me ever, they know I’d shutter.

My shower goes splendid, first obstacle won. But now comes breakfast, I need to get my egg on.

This involves going upstairs, the haven of mishap. All things to avoid – my upstairs, it’s a steel trap.

My crazy aunt everyday, vacuum’s the rugs, hardwood floors. She is ordered to do so, it’s one of her chores. She vacuum’s for hours. Our house isn’t big. When I hear her vacuum a bedroom, that’s my chance to start my breakfast gig.

She’s away for the moment with her loud, obnoxious machine. I’m upstairs cooking eggs – they always come out pristine.

I cut up some melon, brew my Bija tea. Cut a slice of bread and I’m almost home free.

No wait, here she come’s. Down the hall, bulldozing crumbs.

“Cook egg’s come on. You can do it, you’re almost done!”

Crazy aunt takes forever to vacuum 9 feet. She see’s me in the kitchen, she ignore’s me – no greet.

I slide my egg’s on the plate, run down the stairs in a fast gait. Now I’m in front of my laptop at last. Obstacle’s today won, I’m flyin’ first class.

I learned in Korea that side-dishes rule. I’m eating pickled cabbage – it’s a purple hue.

My Bija tea works great. It’s a deep cleanse tea – my bowels evacuate. Life is good at this time of 12:33, the day is as pretty as a palm tree.

I don’t want to work, I’m not gonna lie. Moment’s drip dry, nothing untie’s. I want to hop on a plane and fly to Dubai.

I should put my pant’s on. One leg at a time. Then my shirt, socks, shoe’s – It’s no big news.

Until next time my friends, until we meet again. Have a good day, I hope you find Zen.

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Filed under All about me, journal, Odes

Ode to Iphone

I’m in love!

He came in the mail on Monday morning encased in a slick, sturdy box.

I couldn’t wait to open him, I was itchin’ like chicken pox.

I uncovered the lid

I peered inside

With one look at my new toy, I sighed.

I held him up in one swift move

This new item in my life is truly behooved.

I turned him about like discovering a new lovers form.

My hands once cold, now filled with warm.

I peeled off his plastic membrane,

the coverings that protect his shimmer,

I set my eyes upon him to simmer.

In turn they start to glimmer

of hope and possibilities

At my fingertips, an endless supply of utilities.

This is the new era, the new age

Technology is the backbone,

My phone, it’s ribcage

In six months I’m sure it will be considered an old generation Iphone, but for now, he’s all new and all mine.

Oh and you know what else?  I can buy a fold up bluetooth keyboard that is compatible with him.

I can blog on the beach!  I can blog wherever the hell I want.

Okay, I just went on Amazon and bought a used keyboard for a hundred bucks.  The new one’s are $200.  This will come in handy on my trip to Savannah.  I can even get Netflix on my Iphone!  This phone will ultimately replace my big clunky Hp laptop.

I’m excited, but still cranky.  I still have to massage a bunch of people before I get to go home today.  I’m at Starbucks.

I don’t know what else to write.  I have to go back to work anyways.


Filed under Odes, Uncategorized