Don’t try to change
my mind
like God changes
the wind
when he finds himself
lying on his stomach
on a lazy summer day
longing for clouds to billow
and twist like earthly balloons
into cotton-candy animals
and dream of far-away days
when all he had to worry about
was forming mud-pies
into imaginary children
who could be his friends
instead of today’s looming
clouds of destruction
that threaten to blow it all
away.
PROMPT 8: Write a TOOL poem.
Perhaps, it is because
I have never actually
seen one
that my creative mind
imagines
a barbarous, torturous device
so heinous
that every lazy-assed
good-for-nothing
12-year-old
runs screaming back
to their dining room table
finishing their project,
proving the combined
measurement of angles
will equal 360 degrees,
thereby creating
a tessellating design
equivalent to the twisted
mind of Escher
and pointed barbed-wire fences,
holding back cattle
and procrastinating children.
Assuming, of course,
that my dad actually
OWNS
a cattle prod.
Some theories should not be proved.